


The Friend and the Lover

by Shachaai



Series: For A Muse Of Fire [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Clothes Porn, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Food Porn, Historical, Pegging, possibly even undertones of plot at some point, ridiculous eighteenth-century fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6377224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mafra, Portugal. October, 1735. After some time in the American colonies, England reconnects with European hedonism and Portugal on a trip to see Portugal’s newest palace. England and Portugal reconnect a <i>lot</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can tell you quite cheerfully that this story is ridiculously fluffy filth rounded out with far too many little details about clothes and food and architecture because _late baroque is cool, you guys_ and it felt very rococo to inflict every last frill on people as possible. (Alright, there’s also an element of _look at all my research; I cried doing this research, please love it,_ but _staying true to the rococo aesthetic_ is my excuse now and I’m sticking to it.) I had to break this story into so many parts because it’s _so_ ridiculously long, and it’s only two-thirds written so far. Clothesporn, foodporn and stupid showers of lovehearts from a couple who just want to stay in bed and snugglefuck; I’m not sorry. (I’m very sorry. Large chunks of this story were written under the influence of incredibly delicious Portuguese dessert wine or the very bad cold I’ve still got malingering in my lungs.)
> 
> With _huge_ and impossibly infinite thanks to Hoof who helped make the Portuguese in this happen, prodded my motivation into life and dealt with all the filth I’ve been leaving in her tumblr inbox with all the grace and dignity that I have come to expect of her noble potato heart (i.e, none. She had her revenge). And with lots of love for Hitsu, who cheered me on, queried my dubious grammar, and patiently listened to my whining and outrage even when it involved awful hand-drawn diagrams of eighteenth-century fashion.

_October, 1735  
The Palace of Mafra, Mafra, in the Kingdom of Portugal _

  


“Two maids?”

Portugal greets England at the sumptuous esplanade before his king’s new palace. He is perfectly gentlemanly as he hands her down from her carriage and kisses her cheeks in welcome, his smile matching hers the moment she catches his eyes, but completely forgetting a simple _hello_ to ask his question instead.

(Portugal has not changed.)

“ _Bom dia,_ ” England pointedly reminds him, and gently turns his face away from hers with her closed ivory fan before he can give her the ‘apology’ kiss he is already leaning in for, the beautifully-carved sticks firm against his cheek. At least one of her maids (one lady’s maid, one housemaid) will already be gawking, she knows, though the servants Portugal has brought with him to collect her belongings from the carriage seem immune. “You know how it is: a lady mindful of her honourable reputation should not travel unaccompanied. A single maid clings to her mistress for lack of other company, but two may occupy each other.”

Portugal is entirely unrepentant, even with a fan in his face. “Has their mistress foreseen a reason why they might need to be kept occupied?” He smiles winsomely somewhere over England’s shoulder, boyishly handsome - and immediately there is a flustered feminine _squawk_ from behind, the sound of a great many moonstruck petticoats hitting a carriage door.

One maid down already. (Hopefully just the housemaid.) Perhaps England should have brought a dozen.

She taps her fan lightly on Portugal’s shoulder, drawing his attention away from the disaster that is her servants and their skirts - and perhaps doing said servants a favour and sparing them for a little while longer from Portugal’s _own_ brand of charming devastation. “I have nothing envisaged, of course,” that England will admit to, “but I’m sure we can think of something.”

 _If_ he stops flirting - however unintentionally - with her maids.

“Sou todo teu,” Portugal promises her, _I am all yours,_ and his smile crinkles the corners of his eyes when he cordially offers her his arm. All the gold in Brazil, in the flecks in his eyes, in the rosy marble and fine art of the palace behind him, cannot mask his years spent out on the ocean waves, his blood and skin changed by the salt in the sea-spray. Explorer and storyteller and gentleman all.

Heat floods England’s throat, burning her cheeks - but then, the Iberian October sun is beating down unforgivingly overhead, and she had foregone a hat for the long carriage ride. (Three women, the conical hoop skirts underneath the gowns England and her lady’s maid are wearing _,_ and a great many petticoats had been quite enough for the inside of one small carriage without adding all their accessories to the arrangement, just enough room left for the boxes of their valuables and to stretch out their legs.)

“You know I shall hold you to your word,” England says, an idle warning, and takes the arm offered to her, her hand atop his warmer hand, feeling the muscles of his arm tense in position even through the layers of his shirt and  justaucorps, the sea-green velvet and silver thread of the coat surprisingly soft against the bare skin of her forearm.

They match quite finely that day: Portugal in his blue-green _habit à la française,_ justaucorps, breeches and waistcoat, his ruffled shirt and stockings both a gleaming white, and England in one of the most comfortable styles in her wardrobe, a _robe volante._ The dress and matching top petticoat are made of blue silk lampas, and the white floral motif decorating the cloth compliments her corset, quite easily visible through the sharp _v_ of material at her neckline and trimmed with the same navy blue ribbon she has tied up in her hair. Together, they could be the dark ocean meeting the sky and its soft morning moon, happy memories on a ship’s deck before true sunrise, their breath in the cool air turning to dragonsmoke to fill the sails, the world fresh salt and silvered.

...It is very hard, sometimes, not proposing something ridiculous and abducting - a likely exceedingly willing - Portugal to find some corner of the world his wanderlust people have yet to put down on map. Just for the _journey_ there, rather than the destination, and the company that would appreciate it as much as England. _France_ had only managed to put aside his ambitions for a decade and live a little dream in the New World with England, with her bright America and his charming Canada - but the world had been too loud for (him) the thin walls of a simple home, and they had both been summoned back across the sea to dance the endless stately quadrille. As Nations, they have too many strings tied to their hands and their hearts to not be pulled along at the whims of others, and (even with a better-suited partner) running away from it all to discover new things, to feel a little of the thrill of humanity, would be _irresponsible._ (And supposing she and Portugal _did_ find new land, which one of them then would have the primary right to claim it?)

As yet, however, visiting a friend and ally still counts as re-confirming and solidifying a diplomatic alliance, with little explanation needed for England’s king other than that she has been invited to the Kingdom of Portugal to celebrate King João V’s 46th birthday, viewing the Portuguese monarch’s newest joint palace and convent whilst she is there. The place must be marvellous, built on the gold so recently found in Brazil - and _besides,_ England has historical precedent for viewing incomplete palaces, _regardless_ of her other domestic and diplomatic duties, since _France,_ the court card, had hauled her around his precious goddamned _Versailles_ when it had still been little more than a cesspit of a hunting lodge in the middle of a bog. With gilt on it. If England _must_ deal with the matters of Nations, is it not right that she should take some time to relax on one of the few occasions she - and Wales and now Scotland with her - is _not_ at (official) war with anyone? (Miracle of all miracles, even _Hanover_ is being an obliging long-distance spouse for the moment, keeping his head down and his Prussian borders as quiet as they can be with _that one_ for a neighbour.) Portugal makes life in Europe more bearable, reminds England (very much) of the appeal of decadence, and gives her the inner strength and patience she requires so that she does not attempt to throttle any of her own politicians.

Since they had not paused after disembarking at Lisbon, immediately setting off in a carriage for the new palace at Mafra as soon as their things had been transferred from the ship to their new transport, England does not turn down the late lunch Portugal offers her and her maids - though the maids will eat in England’s assigned chambers, the food brought to them there so they might start unpacking and arranging the rooms as soon as they have eaten. England, meanwhile, finds herself led through the palace to one of its 29 courtyards, going from sun to shade to sun to shade, brought under the roofed part of the colonnade that surrounds the courtyard on all sides.

There are servants and a table there already waiting for them, two gilded chairs with soft silk upholstery that England is happy to sink into. The seats afford a charming view of the courtyard and its quietly tinkling fountain, but more immediately charming is the chilled white wine the servants pour out for them as soon as Portugal takes his seat, another drinking glass for lemonade so cold England shivers, at first, just to touch it.

“...It’s so quiet here,” England comments, when the servants have all melted away to fetch them their food. All she can hear is the fountain, garden birds, and faintly, on the wind, builders and artisans somewhere inside the palace going about their work, muffled _thud_ s that are a credit to Portuguese soundproofing. It’s a whole _world_ away from the bustling palaces in her London. But then… London is her urban heart, and Mafra is barely more than this beautiful palace, a few tiny village and hamlets dotted roundabout in the nearby countryside that England had driven past in her carriage on her way there.

Portugal looks concerned, pausing with his glass of wine half-lifted. “Does it trouble you?”

“Not at all!” Although the building-work will likely be much louder inside during the day. “It is such a relief to be away from noise and gossip and busy streets for a change.”

Portugal sets down his glass again, mild worry twisting up his mouth. “It will be noisier when the king and his retinue arrive, but -”

“We have a few days until then, do we not?” England smiles before Portugal can brood, creating an issue where there is none to be had. He will no doubt overthink it later when he is alone, as that is Portugal’s way, but England does not _mind_ noise - she is far too used to it again; it is the European way - and even excessive noise would be easier to bear in his good company. “Let us make the most of them.” She raises her wine. “ _Saúde._ ”

 _“Saúde,_ ” Portugal offers in return, copying the motion, and cannot take the conversation back to pensive things because before he has finished a swallow of his drink the servants have returned with their food, trays of pots and covered plates and still warm baskets.

The afternoon is already too late for too much food that is too heavy, so they eat _bacalhau,_ salt cod, the fish fried as croquettes and served hot with eggs. With it is slices of soft bread, still warm from the oven, pats of butter and thinly-sliced spicy _chouriço_ , and tiny sticky honey cakes sprinkled with cinnamon. A small, sweet pear each rounds out the meal.

Though she had been hungry at the start, England cannot eat it all. The heat of the day, and the weariness of the journey, has sapped her appetite - leaving enough sausage and bread on the table to entice the tiny chirping birds in the courtyard closer, their beady eyes fixed upon the food.

The sparrows are the boldest, hopping towards a temptingly large crumb of honey cake on the ground by Portugal’s foot. Three of them cluster together about a yard away, clearly debating on whether it will be safe to come any closer - and perhaps they might, were Portugal alone or if England had the patience to earn the trust they will already part-give to the man who is the Nation they make their nests in. As it is, England startles them into hopping _away_ from their coveted crumbs simply by raising a hand to cover an escaping yawn.

“They should be quick,” comments Portugal, pouring them both out the last of the lemonade, “before the servants return and clear the table.”

As the many caretakers of her long, long ago younger days can attest, England has always had a weakness for small hopeful creatures. The fluffy ones had always been the easiest to love - quick foxes; hares loping with her through the fields; faithful rabbits with a merry hop; red squirrels hoarding food for winter, and clever magpies and ravens bringing her their shiny treasures to admire, grooming the tangles of her hair with their beaks -, though she had splashed around enough as well with her sunning toads and croaking frogs. (France had never been too fond of the toads and frogs, especially since England had happily given them a home in his bed - but the same trick had never worked on her siblings. Wales, upon finding a frog snoozing on his pillow, had simply given her his well-honed _disappointed_ look, though he had consented to sharing his bed with two owls and rabbit as well as England. _Scotland_ had dumped the toad she had put in his bed on the floor without a word, and _England_ had been woken up the following morning by her brother dragging her out of her bed by the ankle and depositing her in the nearest pond.)

So the plight of the sparrows is something England feels for. “You’d let the poor things go hungry?” she scolds her host, already reaching for her leftover bread to crumble it up between her fingers.

Portugal shrugs expansively, though he does move his chair much closer to England’s so he is not so close to the cake-crumb that the sparrows so desire. “They do not go _hungry;_ they nest above the kitchens, so they can fly in the windows when they are open to steal little pecks of the food.”

“Fortune favours the bold,” is England’s reply, and she throws most of the bread away from her, aiming for the edge of the colonnade and the open air. The largest pieces she saves for the three sparrows that came closest to the table, throwing it just to the side of the brave little trio so they may have first pick of the choicest morsels, though _dozens_ of the birds quickly flutter down from nowhere to help themselves to all of the feast.

“Coração de manteiga,” Portugal teases her, his brown curls in his eyes when he leans in close: a heart of butter, melted for anything sweet.

England scrunches up her nose at him, “Better a soft heart than a soft _head,_ ” and pushes his face aside when she realises he is leaning quite candidly on the arm of her chair and looking down the neckline of her dress.

They have known each other long enough that Portugal does not even _pretend_ he doesn’t know why she shoved him away, smiling irrepressibly and taking the abrupt hand to his nose as a conversation opener. “They say the _volante_ is favoured by women hiding their pregnancies.”

“...Perhaps,” England says carefully, and takes a sip of her lemonade. They _also_ say the _robe volante_ is favoured by those women with impatient royal lovers, because the dress is so easy to put on and take off, and since - _naturally,_ hear the sarcasm _-_ princes should not have wait ten minutes for sex whilst their ladies undress. (Or, God forbid, have to _aid_ them in undressing.) “I can see why any pregnant woman would wear it, whether they are hiding their belly or not. It is quite loose and comfortable about the middle. But unless you know something that I do not…”

Nations, however much they might or might not want to, cannot conceive.

“I can assure you that I am only wearing it for travelling comfort,” says England, and sets down her glass so she has both her hands free to slowly unlace the front of her dress, widening the _v_ showing off her bare throat and frothy, beribboned stay. Most clothes designed for women rely upon pins for fastening and adjustments - but _pins_ are so vexatious for travel-wear, because a juddering carriage will always find _some_ way to get the sharp points stuck into you through three or more layers of clothing, and who can ever find a tiny pincushion amongst their many belongings when they need it? “...Nothing but my petticoats under here, as you can see.”

“And a pretty stay,” says Portugal, shifting closer once more, allowable this time because she invited him.

England would pass comment about his perseverance with a - technically - married woman, but they have both been as married as their kind can be before, never truly with each other, and still wandered willingly into each other’s arms and beds. Not long before Hanover for England it had been the Dutch Republic - and Portugal had been as frequent a guest in the _marriage_ bed as he had been in separate English and Dutch ones.

When England does not protest, Portugal raises his hand to thoughtfully draw his fingertips along the fine line between her stay (and low-cut shift) and the warmer skin beneath it. A silk ribbon bow pushes into his hand with her chest when England shivers and next draws breath, and Portugal’s fingers trail higher, tracing up the shallow, uncovered part of the valley between her breasts. His thumb rubs the bump of her collarbone affectionately for a moment - but that, too, simply causes another shiver, the lace on the cuffs of his shirt tickling her bosom, the velvet of his justaucorps’ sleeve dragging soft and heavy over her skin. Leaning towards her, his knee is creasing her dress and petticoats, but England cannot do much more than barely glance at them, her back pressing into cushiony silk upholstery and her gaze catching on Portugal’s when his palm, warm and large, curves around her nape, gently turning her face towards him.

He smiles, that expression that shifts his whole face into something softer and lovely - and perhaps Portugal had been _right_ to suggest before that she has a heart made of butter, for England can feel it beating fast in her throat as his thumb strokes under her jaw, the pulse melting in gold down her body, fluttering heat below her diaphragm.

Oh, she has _missed_ him. And _oh,_ how easy it is to _want_ him.

“...And a very pretty woman to wear it all,” Portugal finally finishes, murmured between them like a secret.

England can feel herself flush, and it takes some effort for her voice to keep its usual frankness. “You may compliment me all you want, but I am _not_ unlacing my stay for you to grope me in the courtyard.”

“If you need _help -_ ”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you would be a very happy helper.” England’s lips still taste like the lemon syrup used to make her lemonade. She licks them without thinking of it, instinct, but the unexpected sweetness on her tongue makes her conscious of her mouth, warm and damp in the air, more conscious of _herself -_ and Portugal watching her, his grin still wide and easy from his teasing, but his hazel gaze above it looking quite gold in the shadows under his lashes, intently _lupine._

(A wolf is a wolf, however long it chooses to gambol about with dogs.)

England leans in, and between her and Portugal, his hand on her nape half-guiding her, somewhere they meet. Her lips touch his cheek, first, simply for the steady heat of the Iberian sun to bleed into her, the duality of smooth skin that is and is not at the same time warm earth blown over by the winds off the sea. There is the scent of salt and incense and spice under the amber perfume dabbed under Portugal’s collar, notes of gunpowder and iron overlaid with the citrus-sharpness of oranges and the sour-sweetness of wine so rich and sweet it makes England’s head dizzy to breathe it in, nuzzling idly against Portugal’s jaw until she turns her head enough to slide her kiss to the invitation at his lips.

Portugal’s mouth is rough - too much sea air, too much fondness for his pipes, too much chewing his lower lip when needing a smoke whilst lost deep in thought. It softens, however, softens and swells with kissing - and there, in the corners, are the traces of tobacco, the sweet bittersweetness of tea on his tongue, warm and wet and languid as England breathes against his mouth for a moment and then kisses him again. Her fingertips on his cheek, along his hard jaw, catch on the prickle of stubble missed the last time he shaved, and Portugal smiles against her mouth when he realises what she’s absently rubbing over, playfully nudging his nose against hers and making England _snffff_ in surprise in the middle of their kiss.

Even _more_ surprised at the silly sound she just made, England pulls back - and finds Portugal _barely_ not laughing at her, his grin bright and unrepentant right up until the point England politely headbutts him. _Then_ they can both see who makes the stupidest noises, Portugal’s snort loud enough to startle the sparrows now surrounding their table, the tiny birds cheeping as they quickly flutter away with their lunches in their beaks.

Taking his hand from her neck to pout and rub his forehead, Portugal asks: “That was necessary?”

 _“Entirely,_ ” England assures him, aware she sounds far too pleased with herself to attain the _aloof_ tone she had initially wanted. Leaning back into her seat, she goes to re-lace the front of her gown and at least _try_ to make herself look presentable again - only to discover she is absent the use of one hand, the limb kept captive upon the arm of her chair, Portugal’s fingers firmly threaded through her own.

...When had he -

“Do you need this?” Portugal asks, seeing where England’s gaze has fallen. His hand squeezes hers, warm and secure, and, were her gown not gaping open and suggesting they have been far more intimate at the lunch table than they have been, and as flustered as she is all over again, England would let him keep it.

“Alas,” she says, and means it.

Slowly, and clearly reluctantly, Portugal releases England’s hand - and with good timing, for no sooner is it free than she is suddenly yawning again, reaching up with her liberated limb to cover her mouth.

Leaning on the arm of his own chir, Portugal regards her thoughtfully. “You should rest before dinner; your journey was a long one.”

“And waste the daylight?” England re-laces her gown, a little more clumsy than she would be if Portugal’s eyes weren’t so intently focused on her. “I can rest when it’s dark.”

“We do not _have_ to rest when it is dark.” There is more than one layer of pleasant suggestion in Portugal’s voice when he says that, more than enough for England to pause in her task and eye him speculatively. “Please, Inglaterra, rest for a little time; build up some appetite for the night. I can show you some of the gardens before dinner -”

England cuts him short. “And when I am wide awake _after_ dinner?”

“I have nothing envisaged,” says Portugal, mimicking England’s words and crisper enunciation from when she had first stepped out of her carriage on the esplanade and debauching them entirely with the wicked glint in his eyes, “but I am sure we can think of _something_.”

  
  
  


 

 

When dinnertime arrives, England does not want to get up.

 _“No,”_ she moans to the bolster she has somehow wrapped herself around in her sleep, two pillows haphazardly - but very comfortably, thank you - still under her head.

However, Anne, her lady’s maid, remains quite insistent, nudging England’s shoulder despite all of England’s burrowing into the bed-linen, eyes determinedly screwed shut. “Lady England, our host is at the chamber door.”

England can feel _every_ ache of her carriage ride. “Good for him.”

“You _said_ we should wake you when he arrived -”

“You _have_ awoken me.” Anne is a wonderful lady’s maid, England knows this. Anne has served her faithfully and quite well, kept her secrets, managed her appearance and helped her order her business. Anne has worked for England both as Nation and as Lady Kirkland (and, more than a few times, as _Lord_ Kirkland, when it has been easiest for England to present herself as a man), just as Anne’s grandmother had done before her, England’s lady’s maid over fifty years ago.

And yet all the loyalty in the world will not prise England from her comfortable bed.

She reaches blindly for the nearest sheet with one hand, and stubbornly pulls it over her head. “Now let me go back to sleep.”

“But -”

England _ughhh_ s very loudly from under her sheet-cocoon, for once acting very much like the young woman she _looks_ like than the very, very old soul she actually is. (You have your youth only once, they say, and at this moment England believes hers is three hundred years overdue.)

Anne sighs, and her bothering hand and watchful presence disappear from England’s bedside, allowing England to drift off once more, warm and comfortable in the nest made of her borrowed feather mattress, her own body-heat, and the early evening sun sliding warm and beguiling through her chamber’s open window to lay in a heavenly blanket across her sheet-covered legs. She floats, not quite asleep, not quite awake, the sound of the breeze and familiar voices talking a lullaby behind her closed eyes, peacefully dreaming hazy dreams that slip away from her like the puffs of a dandelion clock.

The hand peeling back the blankets over her head is unappreciated.

“You know,” close enough to her now she _cannot_ ignore the amusement in his voice as he stands beside her bed, Portugal says, “I will remember this when you next call me names for refusing to get out of bed in the morning.”

England scrunches up her face in the general direction of his _presence,_ just so he can see it, and then turns her face ever more stubbornly into the firm bolster she has wrapped herself around like ivy. “No, you won’t. You’ll be too busy refusing to get out of bed.”

Portugal just laughs at her, and sits on the edge of the bed by her chest so that he can lazily place his hand on her shoulder, pushing until England begins to turn onto her back. Brute.

Begrudgingly, England consents to be rolled over, though she half-drags the bolster with her, a barrier between her and the world - or just her and Portugal, who is leaning over her now and _smiling_ . (She does not need to _look_ at him to know he is smiling at her suffering, the inconsiderate _wretch._ ) There is much more _light_ in her eyes in this position, something quite intolerable, so England opens the lids into thin slits to adapt them better _and_ make sure Portugal is aware of her displeasure. “I hate you.”

“I love you very much,” says Portugal, above her. (He _is_ smiling. England will kill him.) He has not buttoned up his waistcoat or the shirt under it properly, cream silk faille and white linen open to the tan skin of his throat, the hard swell of the apple Adam should have choked on.

_How does he say things like that so easily._

“I’m not getting up,” says England. Not for all the romance in the world. Or even for the way Portugal’s hair is slowly slipping forward over his shoulder the way it does on those rare occasions when he manages to wake up in bed before her, his warm weight over her, his mouth moving lazily over hers, and his beautiful dark hair somehow wound up in her fingers before she is properly awake.

“Yes, you are,” says Portugal.

“Am not.”

“I have desserts in my chambers. The kitchens want our opinions on them before the king comes.”

“...I don’t _want_ desserts.” England _does_.

“Yes, you do,” says Portugal, which is quite another thing from England admitting that to _herself,_ so England lifts up the end of the heavy bolster in her arms and shoves it into Portugal’s face.

England gets up, if only to stop herself from being _bothered_ further - and finds herself immediately ushered behind a japanned screen by Anne so the maid can undo the stay England slept in, maintaining England’s _honour_.

Frowning over her shoulder - it appears the stay-laces have become tangled with all of England’s rolling around in bed -, England asks: “You _do_ realise that I’m still perfectly decent as long as I have my shift on?”

All of this is perfectly ridiculous. She can - and _has -_ entertained guests in her shift and stay before, albeit usually with a blanket around her for warmth, as it is the fashion. Not to mention that Portugal has seen her naked enough times - something Anne and Caroline, the housemaid England had brought to Portugal with her, should be able to at least _guess,_ if not outright know.

“You were never decent, meu coração,” Portugal says quite cheerfully from the other side of the screen.

“Caroline, hit him for me please.”

Caroline - no doubt falling in love with the terrible Portuguese influence for the second time that day - just giggles, apparently making the bed, judging by the sound of shifting silk and linen.

England, meanwhile, is stripped of both her stay and shift, standing bare (save her stockings) and shivering at the temperature change in the minute it takes for Anne to fetch new ones. The new stay is much plainer than the last - but not intended to be _viewed_ as much, as fairly no-nonsense as the neat crossing of the laces against England’s spine, pulled tight to pull England’s shoulders _up_ and push her chest _out,_ the required silhouette for the day’s dresses to correctly fit. (Hopefully the fit will _still_ be correct after the desserts Portugal has promised her, though England does not have high hopes in that regard. The Portuguese make terrible, _wonderful_ sweets, and England loves to be spoilt with them.)

She chooses her open white satin _robe à la française_ for the evening, putting on her pockets and exchanging the _volante_ ’s hoop of earlier in the day for the smallest and most comfortable panniers that fashion will let her get away with. Over that goes her under-petticoats, each tied at the back then looped around to tie at the front, then the gorgeous white satin petticoat that matches her dress, tied the same way. Careful wadding and corded quilting has decorated the usually smooth surface of the fabric with beautiful patterns, a subtle white-on-white that displays itself best when England moves through the light, and England strokes it whilst she waits for her maids to fetch the rest of her clothing, enjoying the feeling of the rippling patterns under the pads of her fingertips.

“Do you still wish to go for a ramble in the gardens,” Portugal asks suddenly, still on the other side of the screen and probably feeling quite lonesome since both Anne and his enamoured Caroline have joined their mistress to help her dress, pinning down her bodice and smoothing down the long pleats on the back of her open robe, “as I said before?”

“Yes, of course.” Though they certainly will not be able to see all the gardens before nightfall; even as a work in progress, it is plain to see the elaborate _jardim do cerco_ is quite extensive. Portugal should never have coaxed England to go nap. “But a _turn_ in the gardens would be a better way to say that, darling. _Ramble_ is the term for when you go walking with the intent to meet creatures of the night.”

Portugal does not get it. “...Owls?”

“...Not that type of creature.” When her maids step away from her, nodding their assent, England steps out from behind the screen. She is gratified when Portugal, in the seat he has casually taken before her vanity mirror to poke through all her belongings, looks suitably admiring when he catches sight of her, barely managing to re-cap her pink glass perfume bottle shaped like a lotus before he spills the scent inside all over his lap. “ _Ladies_ of the night, love. Gentlemen of the backdoor?”

“ _Oh._ ” The light of understanding at last. “Prostitutas.”

Caroline brings England her shoes to step into, silk and red leather - and England calmly lifts one foot to place it on the scant piece of her chair left on show between Portugal’s spread strong thighs. If he is going to make a nuisance of himself - and steal her (borrowed) furniture -, he can buckle her shoe.

Which he does, quite well-trained at this point, everyone ignoring the scandalised noise Anne makes in the back of her throat about propriety and England exposing her stockings.

England just switches which leg she is standing on, so Portugal may buckle up her other shoe as well. Portugal does not seem at all concerned - in fact, when England looks down at him, he seems _distracted,_ mulling through his thoughts as one of his hands cradles her ankle.

England touches his shoulder lightly. “A penny for your thoughts?”

Portugal is quite lovely in his surprise, for all the world like a startled dog that has been prodded in the side whilst napping in the sun, blinking out of his reverie and up at her. “ _Prostitutas_ ,” he says again.

“...Yes?” asks England.

“What do they have to do with doors?”

...Metaphors and euphemisms don’t always translate well.

“Back,” says England, and claps both her hands on the back of her dress (almost hitting Anne behind her, who is busy smoothing out the hair England has mussed up in her sleep), over the general pleated area of her rear. “ _Door._ ”

Portugal looks between England’s face and the position of England’s hands - and actually rears back like a young and startled catholic nun when he gets what England is hinting at, his spine bumping into the table behind him and making all of England’s things and the mirror upon it rattle. Perhaps it is because they have female - mortal - company, Anne rolling her eyes heavenward and Caroline clutching her own skirts, but he actually goes _pink._ “Your _language -_ there is _no_ door there!”

( _Oh,_ there is nothing quite like scandalising a catholic.)

England grins, as much a tease as Portugal can be when she sets her heart upon it. “There _is_ a thoroughfare there of sorts, depending on whom you ask, which is remarkably good for turning knobs.”

England is still half-laughing when Portugal all but marches her out to see the gardens, grabbing her parasol for her so he barely has to wait whilst Anne finishes off the last of England’s dressing - a choker necklace, high on her throat, glittering almandine garnets and floral silverwork tied at her nape with a large red silk bow. The colour of the stones match, in part, the beautiful silk embroidery on Portugal’s long-sleeved waistcoat, a garden of many-coloured flowers on the soft, rich cloth - and so the garden of many colours around them, herbs and flowers bright and blooming in the _jardim do cerco._

Laid out in beds and geometric boxwood enclosures, the beautiful flora in the palace garden has been brought from all the Portuguese holdings across Asia, Africa, and the Americas. Europe, likewise, is not unfavoured; Portugal’s native flowers cluster around marble plinths still awaiting statues, English and French roses all but frothing with their many petals in the autumn heat. The walks by the orange and lemon groves are shaded and full of scent, and the plum trees are heavy enough with fruit that the plums fall into Portugal’s cupped hand when he reaches up to touch them, offering a plum each to England and her servant chaperones. (England demurs - she will spoil her appetite for dinner - but Anne and Caroline both delightedly accept, and England tucks her head under her parasol and pretends not to notice the two ladies jostling to be the first to give their thanks and offer Portugal their handkerchief to wipe his hands on when the idiot devours a plum himself and then realises he has dark juice all over his hands.)

The forest and hunting grounds beyond the garden is full of wildlife; with true evening coming apace, the birds of the night are beginning to sing and the rabbits have started to come out of their dens, darting across the wide, pale garden paths as they pass from bush to bush in search of fallen fruit or a drink in one of the garden’s many bubbling fountains or serene pools. Shy of humans and the hunter’s horn, most of the time the rabbits flee before Portugal, England and her maids can come across them, their presence marked only by the disappearing flash of a fluffy tail out of the corner of one’s eye, and, once, a set of wet little pawprints that streak across pale limestone at a pool’s edge, the trail quickly disappearing into a nearby patch of grass.

It is all quite charming, a baroque halcyon dream - and the sky seems to agree, splashing the cloud with a painter’s sunset, pink and red, orange and yellow. The pale stones that the architects of Mafra so favour glow in such a light, the wide, white paths of the garden turning into so many overlapping ribbons of gold.

Looking upon the sight, a small, wry part of England quietly observes that Portugal could have anyone he desired if he brought them to this garden at sunset, man or women or elsewise, provided that that being had so much as an _ounce_ of feeling in their souls. It is difficult not to be moved by something so beautiful, as though touched by the hand of God Himself - and perhaps it is just as difficult not to _say_ as much, the sentiment leaving England’s lips before her mind can recover from the splendour.

“ _Obrigado_ ,” says Portugal, for of _course_ he overheard her, England too distracted by the sunset to notice his presence at her side until he speaks, leans in, his hand on her startled elbow and his mouth soft and disarming against the sharp line of her cheekbone. He has pulled back before either of England’s maids can work themselves up into the moral flurry _chaperoning_ entails - but as his kiss had been sweetly childish, his smile now is childishly _naughty,_ turned upon the poor human women with his next proclamation and candid forthrightness: “I will be stealing your mistress for the rest of the night now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The subtitle to this fic could quite easily be _Portugal Gets Hit With Everything In The Face_. The _actual_ title comes from [_The Lover: A Ballad_](http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poems/lover-ballad), by Lady Mary Wortly Montagu:  
>  _And that my delight may be solidly fix'd,_  
>  _Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mix'd_
> 
> If you’re interested in the Palace of Mafra ( _Palácio Nacional de Mafra_ ), you can find out a great deal with a quick google search, but [here is a video of an overview of the palace as it is today](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8NzCmhdTLDY).
> 
> In the 18th (and into the 19th) century, English servants were known for being well-dressed. A lady’s maid in particular received her mistress’ cast-offs, although she wasn’t always encouraged to _wear_ them depending on the station of her mistress.
> 
> Some possibly unfamiliar terms:  
>  _Justaucorps_ : essentially just the name for the (in this period, long) jacket worn over one’s shift and waistcoat  
>  _Shift_ : the long shirt worn by both sexes as their most basic underclothing, eventually becoming a chemise for women  
>  _Stay_ : early corset  
>  _Court card_ : ‘a gay, fluttering sort of fellow; a coxcomb’  
>  _Stately quadrille_ : the term given to the maintenance of the balance of power in Europe during the 18th and early 19th century; the fact it’s named after a dance where one frequently switches partners should say a lot about international politics at this time
> 
> England’s ‘spouse’/Hanover: when the line of Stuarts ended with Queen Anne, and Catholics were forbidden by law from ascending to the British throne, the nearest Protestant relative to Anne who was viable for the crown was one Georg Ludwig, ruler of the Duchy and Electorate of Brunswick-Lüneburg (Hanover) in the Holy Roman Empire. He ascended to the British throne and became _George I_ , the first of the Hanoverian monarchs, thus entering into a personal union with the kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland.
> 
> Inspiration for the wardrobes in this chapter:  
> Portugal’s sea-green outfit ([here](https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/28006828908207993/) and [here](https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/512706738804177157/)), and his [cream outfit](https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/28006828910754230/).  
> England’s blue [_robe volante_](http://www.mfa.org/collections/object/dress-and-petticoat-488666), white outfit ([here](https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/166281411216065810/) and [here](https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/244461086000168124/), her [garnet necklace](https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/537617274237286585/), and an [18th century parasol](https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/525091637773582808/).


	2. ii

England’s ears are still ringing half an hour later, her head full of English protestations - about her honour, _again -_ and Portuguese teasing, Portugal being _thoroughly_ unhelpful with the timing of his comments as England had attempted to placate her maids - although he had loaned the two human women, and thus England, one of his own footmen to serve and aid them during England’s stay at Mafra. Whilst England spends her time with Portugal, the footman will see to it that the maids are as fed and entertained as they wish to be, once they have attended to their duties, of course.

“Should we expect to have many duties tonight?” Anne had asked in the garden, more frank than she usually tended to be.

“...If you could send me a clean shift, and some other necessaries, with the footman,” England had replied, very conscious of the way Portugal was standing a few steps away and _studiously_ examining a nearby rosebush, “then you and Caroline may consider the rest of your night free.”

“...‘Necessaries.’” Whilst England quite favoured having intelligent servants - it was wonderful to have people who did not always have to be _told_ every little thing they must do -, it was sometimes a little embarrassing to employ those that understood enough to give her a shrewd look.

Shrewd. At their _Nation._

“Yes,” England had said, ignoring the high spots of heat she could feel encroaching onto her cheeks. “ _Necessaries._ ”

The women thus dismissed, Portugal takes England to his private chambers for dinner, his servants lighting the candles about the rooms as they enter, a golden glow that spreads as they set the pretty silver candlesticks before the room’s few mirrors.

Considering the palace is still a building site, and Portugal’s home in Lisbon is not too far away, there is not much in the outer room that England can see that immediately marks the chambers as belonging to her dear friend. Portugal usually accumulates sentimental items like England’s long hair collects burrs in the woods, but these new rooms are remarkably sparse for him, the belongings inside beautiful but impersonal.

“You seem to have grown better at clearing up after yourself,” England jests when Portugal pulls out her chair for her, taking a seat at a table already beginning to overflow with food. “Or is it that you just haven’t unpacked?”

“I have some of my books,” says Portugal, with a wry nod to a closed cabinet against the wall as he takes his own seat close at her side, “but you can judge me when you see my bedchamber.”

England intends to do just that. (Portugal, however much he is scolded, blithely rifles through _her_ belongings often enough.) “You seem to be making a habit of creating a beautiful façade, and keeping a mess within.”

“Would you like it the other way instead?”

England shifts enough so that she can tap Portugal’s ankle with the tip of her shoe, propping her elbow upon the table, chin upon her hand. “I’m fond of _you,_ aren’t I?”

With Portugal so close, and the candlelight so pure, England can see the playful question - _how fond? -_ on Portugal’s parted lips. She could trace it with her thumb if she so desired, feel the condensation of his breath upon her skin - although that would likely drag her ruffled satin engageantes straight into the cups of dark wine a servant has just poured them, so. Perhaps not.

They eat. It is quiet, for the most part - through the courses of hot spicy bean soup and buttered bread, diced potatoes sprinkled with garlic and strips of grilled belly pork served alongside its crackling -, although England does ask, when they are brought roast hare, if she met their dinner whilst it was still hopping around the garden and getting fat on the aromatic herbs. There are kidney beans to go with the meat, finely chopped peppers and onions, and tiny sweet carrots and parsnips saved from small and hungry forest creatures by the grace of God (and a few exceedingly vigilant gardeners).

The wine goes a little too quickly to England’s head. That is her reasoning, anyway, when they pause between savoury and sweet - mostly for the servants to clear the table, but perhaps for the diners to rise from theirs seats and clear their heads, England swaying a little too easily (for when they have company, anyway) into Portugal’s arms when he offers her an embrace.

All the lace, silk and fine linen in the world cannot soften the strength Portugal still has in his muscles, in his body, in his country, the gold filling his treasury only one half of the coin, his years working the land, sailing and exploring and riding the other. Portugal is a long hard line of comforting heat and England’s edges soften against him like cheap candlewax, turning the warmth of her cheek to his breastbone and grounding herself with the feeling of the embroidery on his waistcoat against the skin on her palms.

Just above her head, Portugal _hm_ s, his hands sliding slowly down England’s sides like a slow lick of flame, as though committing it all, again, to memory. “...I think you have grown taller.”

“I think your brain’s shrunk,” England retorts on instinct, completely without ire, and the rich shiver of Portugal’s laughter echoes beneath her hands and her ear and in her chest cradled up against his, her lips turning up into an embarrassed smile when he presses his lips against her brow. It is good to be with someone who understands her, especially when her mind sometimes runs slower than her mouth.

Portugal had not lied about dessert. The servants bring in all their sweet delights on great silver trays - and Portugal must send over half of it away again immediately, to be consumed the following day, for they are far too full to eat it all. That still leaves them with enough to occupy themselves with until _morning_ \- or so England declares, though she finishes her deep glass dish of orange chocolate cream with an alacrity that should be considered a compliment to the chef.

They take the rest of their sweets through to Portugal’s inner chamber on a single tray - and it is lucky that it is not England carrying it, for she would have dropped it in her surprise when she sees the strange design of her host’s _bed,_ something warm in her belly clenching hot and tight _._

“You _don’t have a canopy_?”

It… it is almost _unheard_ of not to have some kind of canopy bed, especially in so rich a residence as a _palace._ England’s bed in her guest chambers had been a four-post canopy bed, so she had thought nothing of it, but all over Europe, even the very lower middle classes will scrimp and save to buy themselves a four-post canopy bed as the main bed of the house; it has always been so. In cramped homes, drawing the curtains (or closing the doors of the strange ‘cupboard’ variation that Scotland and their kin North of him like) on a four-post bed almost makes another room within a room, keeping warmth in and dirt and prying eyes out. There is _privacy_ behind curtains, beneath a canopy - something quite important when bedrooms can see a lot of business done in them, people coming and going -, and yes, though the French fashions have changed to the soaring half-canopy design now, the _angel bed,_ they have _still_ kept _some_ sort of canopy.

If there is no canopy, how is an industrious soul supposed to keep the bed clear of dust?

If there is no canopy, how is an ambitious soul supposed to display their wealth via their beautiful bed-hangings?

...If there is no canopy, how on earth does Portugal expect anybody without an exhibitionist streak a mile wide to be coaxed into bed with him, since _anyone_ could walk in and immediately spy exactly what is going on?

It is hardly like Portugal can say he has been demoted to a poor man’s lodgings by his king (the rooms are too fine for that), or that his bed _not_ having a canopy is unintentional; the wood frame of his sleeping accommodation is still _gleaming_ with polish, quite new. Added to that, the dome-shaped walnut head and footboards of the bed are covered in beautiful, twisting carvings, suggesting an artisan’s work.

Portugal sets the tray of desserts down on the closest empty space amongst his things, apparently unconcerned by the look of accusing bewilderment England is fixing between his shoulder-blades. Her skin still feels too hot, her blood at the surface, and the air around her too cool and empty.

“It is the fashion here now,” he says.

 _“Why._ ”

Portugal had been doing so _well._ His people had been behind the fashions of the rest of Europe for - oh! - about a _century,_ and then they had suddenly caught up, with the proper little twists here and there that are to be expected when adapting styles from other countries, and now -

Now _this._

“I like the simpler design.” Portugal has that ironic little twist to his lips that says he _knows_ he is entertaining a peculiarity - and has the graciousness to at least have alcohol prepared for his guests when first confronted with it, the sound of pouring liquid shortly preceding a cool glass of port being placed in England’s hands. “E mais uma coisa, sometimes it grows too _hot_ here for bed-curtains.”

Despite being contentedly tucked up in his arms barely ten minutes prior, England moves rather primly away from Portugal’s hand on her waist. “It is never too hot for modesty.”

“Inglaterra, the _door_ locks.”

Oh, yes, the door that one must get up and _un_ lock if one wants to let the servants in and have hot water to wash with in the morning. It just asks for so much more effort at such a _tiresome_ part of the day, and England grimaces at the thought of it, focusing on something other than her slight deliria. She rises early, for the most part, the better to attend to all her business and still leave her some time for leisure, but has never been particularly _fond_ of mornings. They happen too soon in the day, before her mind has completely woken up and prepared itself to deal with them.

Rolling his eyes at her - as if _he_ is a shining beacon of either modesty or early-rising -, Portugal cups England’s face between his palms, tipping up the pout it makes of her expression to meet the frankness of his hazel gaze. Even searching his beautiful eyes in return, England has never entirely been able to fathom what he sees in her - but what he does _not_ currently see is any actual rancour or impediment to their plans, though England is still going to make him pay, somehow, for the entire _bed_ issue. ( _He_ can unlock the door in the morning.)

Thus apparently adequately satisfied with England’s feelings about his taste in - eccentric - furniture, Portugal kisses her forehead, and then, right as England’s lips part to scold him, her mouth, so firm and sudden England almost drops the glass she is only loosely holding with one hand.

Dreams are often as short as they are sweet.

Portugal smiles, the soft imprint of it still lingering like an ember, and lets her go. “Drink your wine.”

England wrinkles up her nose at him, but obligingly goes to take a seat by the table where Portugal had left the food, spreading out her skirts before helping herself to some of the caraway comfits in a dish on the tray. The crisp layers of sugar around the spicy seeds go well with her port, cracking between her teeth as she thoughtfully watches Portugal busy himself with pouring more alcohol.

His bedchamber _is,_ as he promised, a much more intimate reflection of his personality. Though the room is hardly as cluttered as Portugal’s home in Lisbon, there is still a lovely Chinese scroll on the wall (a harbour scene of Macau, if England can recall her geography of that area right), and many more _things_ lying about. There are letters strewn on the writing desk, weighed down with a paint-covered rock, a rosary tangled up with black hair ribbons on a commode, and an exceedingly crumpled (and likely used) _shift_ on the table by the tray beside England - which she lifts with one finger to check if there is anything interesting under it. Finding a chess set and an abandoned tobacco pipe there, the shift promptly ends up on the floor.

“You wish to play?” Portugal joins England as England is busy gathering up all the fallen pieces and setting up the board, taking the seat on the other side of the table. His glass clinks against his pipe when he sets it down, the candlelight running red through his drink, reflecting all his vices at once.

“If you wish to,” England replies, though that had not been her intention when setting up the board. The pieces are beautifully carved ivory - Indian in make, if England had to guess their origin -, as tall and delicate as spindles and decorated with exquisitely minute carvings. It had seemed a shame to leave them lying on their board like a ravaged empire, kings and queens as toppled as the pawns.

Portugal seems pleased at the proposition, taking the white king England offers him between his fingers so that he may found his kingdom anew on his end of the board. “It has been a while since I had a good partner.”

“If I recall our last match correctly, _you_ hardly need a _good_ partner to beat you at chess.”

England only laughs as Portugal declares her _cruel,_ swiping a small puff pastry from off the dessert tray to take with her to the door when someone knocks upon it, leaving Portugal to finish preparing their board. The inside of the pastry bursts with sweet lemon cream inside her mouth, as unexpected as the large amount of _things_ she is suddenly handed upon opening the door, a very flustered footman offering her the lot with a great deal of fast Portuguese, an accented _lady,_ and then, his hands freed, a quick departing bow.

He is gone from Portugal’s rooms before England can swallow the remains of her puff pastry. “Um?”

“He said your lady’s maid threatened his manhood if your belongings were not delivered to you immediately and without interference, and to please let that woman know he had complied with her wishes.” Portugal is licking the last of some sweet confection of his own off of his fingers when England glances back at him, looking for all the world like an amused child with his thumb in his mouth. “Inglaterra, why must you always employ scary servants?”

“To better deal with the scary me,” is England’s dry retort, and she takes her things over to deposit on the commode.

Anne has done as England asked of her, wrapping up the simplest necessaries her mistress will need for the night in a long cloak. There is one of England’s nicer shifts for sleeping in, as well as a quilted grey silk bed jacket if England gets cold, combs and brushes and a fresh ribbon for her hair, and a small blue pincushion that had been affectionately given but very grudgingly made for her by Bermuda, since the girl hates her sewing and embroidery lessons so.

Somewhat _less_ necessary in the bundle is a smooth, plain wooden box. It is not too heavy, and covers half the length and the whole width of England’s lap when she is sitting, she knows, for she has laid it there before. Despite having no discernible lock on it, the box will not open unless England desires it open - a fact which is enough to make her blush now, for she does not often _have_ the box open, and so how had _Anne_ known enough of the box’s contents to deem their presence _necessary_ for her mistress that night?

England covers the box with her shift, willing away some of the pinkness in her cheeks before she shows Portugal her face again. “...Have you ever wondered what sort of impression you give humans?”

“...Não?” Of course Portugal has not.

They play chess, as is Portugal’s desire, England biting the inside of her cheek to restrain certain desires of her own. The board between them is divided into Portuguese national colours; Portugal plays with unadorned white ivory, whilst England’s kingdom is stained a soft green. Since he is the owner of the board and her host, England grants Portugal the first move, and quietly helps herself to a tiny hedgehog moulded of marzipan whilst he deliberates over his pawns, pulling off the thin slices of almonds used for its quills to eat one by one. (She has always liked marzipan; France had used to bribe her into good behaviour with marchpane animals when they had been children, sometimes making them with her in the castle kitchens. Her fondness for sweets has not abated since then.)

Despite being one of the first ones to play chess in Europe, learning the many rules to the games in a conqueror’s gilded halls, Portugal is not one of England’s better opponents. He - and Spain like him - is far too _impetuous_ at times, making quick, bold moves that would be decisive on a true battlefield - but just as quickly land him in trouble in the smaller Game of Kings, as there is nowhere to hide one’s pieces on an open board. Added to that, Portugal rarely practices his chess. There are other activities he enjoys more, other challenges that appeal - and so he is only _good_ at chess, rather than brilliant. He has only beaten England a handful of times over the centuries that she can recall, and most of _those_ had been because she had been distracted.

Rather ruefully, England knows she is distracted _now,_ paying more attention to the shine of sugar on Portugal’s lips when he bites into a fat little bird made of marzipan than to her knights galloping around the chessboard after her lover’s bishop. Portugal should be faring better than he is - but at least he _admits_ it, coming away from staring off out the room’s dark window and shrugging carelessly as England misses an opportunity for his bishop, taking an errant pawn instead.

Portugal’s king retreats in response. “India plays a better game than me.”

“That isn’t _hard._ ” Most of the pointed part of England’s tone is aimed at herself - she usually has better self-control than this -, so to soften her comment, adds: “He’s been playing some version or another of this game longer than either of us.”

Portugal looks away from the board again, back to the window. It is too dark to see outside now, so perhaps Portugal is contemplating India’s skill, or simply cannot bear to watch England slowly picking off the outer circles of his defence around his king.

On his next turn, one of his castles takes a pawn England had almost forgotten about, and the slow sly side-glance Portugal gives her from under his lashes when he removes the green piece is almost coquettish enough to have England captive as well. “It would be interesting to watch you both play.”

England is sure it _would._

“...We _are_ still talking about chess?” England takes the castle, her question playful - and Portugal shrugs, smile crooked in the same way; he is leaving the interpretation up to England. “Perhaps I _will_ come with you when you next visit him to oversee your areas of influence; the business in my Presidency towns could always do with some motivation.” And she had certainly enjoyed her last meeting with India.

A few more moves, a few more pieces disappear off the board. Most of them are white.

“Why do you keep staring off into the distance?” England asks, as Portugal is looking off out of the window _again,_ and it is unlike him to be so inattentive without cause. She has the Portuguese bishop that had been eluding her at last, the smooth curves of the piece a little victory in her palm, though taking it leaves her queen open to attack.

“I have a headache,” says Portugal, and goes for her queen as England thought he would, leaving the green king a widower. Portugal does not look _pained,_ or else England might have thought of that, and her conscience pricks at her until he amends himself. “No, not headache, it is like…I am not sure of the word. Uma _cócega._ ” He touches the space between his eyebrows with three fingers, a little below there, in the place which sometimes, when England’s eye itches, makes her inexplicably sneeze. “Here.”

England does not know the word. “Do you know it in French?”

“ _Chatouille._ ”

“...Tickle.” England takes the queen-killer with a swift bishop that she had left waiting, and then frowns at her own translation, looking up at her opponent. “Check. You have a _ticklish_ feeling in your head?” There are far too many ways that that phrasing could be misconstrued, or things that could mean for beings like them. Not every Nation-state works the same, after all. “...I do get a niggling sensation when my people are being troubled by some sort of attack or other. But we’re not at war at the moment, are we?”

Portugal moves his king a square, prompted more by _check_ than by actually looking at the board. “I will kiss you for the _we_ later.”

England moves one of her knights - and then herself, leaning forward over the table with her chin upon her hands in a way she _knows_ flatters her low neckline, her dress rustling like a silken promise and all the sweetness she has eaten honeying her voice. “You could kiss me _now_ , if you do not think the tickling is important and are in need of distraction.” It has been a _long_ day, and England would like to be a thoroughly occupied and occupying distraction. “Checkmate, by the way.”

Portugal’s smile, emerging slow and flirtatiously, drops before its zenith in surprise, and he looks away from England’s invitation to stare at the chessboard between them. His brow creases, as if seeing the arrangement of the pieces upon it for the first time. “...Did you not _just_ take advantage of my distraction?”

“I’m very good at it,” says England, and has to laugh for the thoroughly _disgruntled_ look that earns her. She lifts her chin, perfectly aware of the way the silver and garnets high around her throat will glitter sharply in the candlelight, and offers Portugal her hand - quite prepared for him to take it, strong fingers tucked neatly under her own, but _not_ so much for him to lift it to his mouth, as delicately as a piece of porcelain, and kiss her knuckles, the fire of his direct gaze above it devouring the air between them, and his mouth so hot it cracks her.

As soon as they can walk, the children of highfolk are taught the art of poise. Dancing masters teach one how to walk, how to move and dance and hold oneself even when perfectly still, a training to achieve a result that must be effortless, because to be seen giving thought to such things is to invite ridicule. The details change over the years, decade to decade, fashion to fashion, and England has danced along the lines drawn in the sand, slippers wet with morning dew and sea-foam on palatial marble, creaking ship-oak, cobblestones, dust and sand.

These years, women are taught to walk with short, smooth steps, serene as a swan on calm lake, for all the world looking as though they float along in their long, gorgeous gowns. It is something that sets the women at European courts apart from others - and it had been something that America had been most curious about, when he had once compared his guardian’s gait with that of the majority of women in his colonies. When England had explained her manner to him he had tried to copy it, walking behind her - and managed less _swan_ and more _determinedly waddling duck,_ to the point England had had to stop for her own laughter, crumpling to the ground amidst her skirts and offering her arms to America’s dear pout, his smaller arms clasped about her neck nigh at once.

No dancing master would teach the way England lunges across the table between her and Portugal, not even those who extend their arts to foils and swords. It is a plain and honest move, and elegant only because it is simply _feral_ ; as the old song sings, the swans may all a’swimming go, and the impatient creature they have left behind them in their place has fangs and claws and a bloody throat.

The king has fallen. England goes for the rest of the kingdom.

One hand in the middle of the conquered chessboard and the other snarled tight in Portugal’s hair, England kisses Portugal savagely, selfishly, her fingers buried so deeply in the silk-rough curls at the back of his head that he cannot move a breath from her any way. She devours him, the artless strangled noise in his mouth, and he surrenders for it, pliant to her tongue, her teeth. England’s panniers and petticoats have jostled the table, rattled all the things upon it, and she could not give a damn for any of them, capturing Portugal’s mouth, again, again, tasting alcohol and sugar and spice, port and marzipan, hunger roaring hot and hard in her heartbeat.

“ _Bed,_ ” England demands when she can bear to part for breath, when her own hand is trembling upon chessboard and table enough that she just might topple entirely. Her voice is much rougher than she would like it, but Portugal too, looks like he has been ravaged by a wind-storm; his mouth is red and wet and the black of his eyes blown as wide and as tremulously delicate as the insides of an egg-shell pricked through with a needle.

“I,” says Portugal, and his voice cracks upon the syllable enough that he flushes with it, gunpowder smoke from the heating of his cheeks. Viciously, England hopes he is as wrecked already as she _feels,_ the spark on a long fuse having wound its way to the powder keg at last. He cannot look away from her face. “We should- _sim._ ”

They stumble their way to their feet, together, like a ship rocking at anchor on a storm-lashed sea, and Portugal’s hands are eager at England’s elbows, rubbing at her bare forearms when she possessively lays her hands at his waist. He cannot seem to decide where to place his own grip and so tries to take in all of her, his palms at her shoulders now, smoothing up the pleats of her back, brushing red ribbon aside to cup her nape and tip her head up to greet his lowered mouth.

England smiles into his kiss, pulling indulgently at the cloth of Portugal’s waistcoat to walk them, backwards, to the bed, but he stops her. Extracts himself, despite England’s frown.

“Wait.”

 _Wait._ England is very tired of waiting, and plainly _says_ as much when Portugal leaves her to go to the door of his chamber, closing it firmly and locking it. Her words give her the pleasure of watching a shudder go straight up Portugal’s back, and when he turns his gaze is locked to her again. She can see it when his eyes widen, the thin line of his irises’ honey around his pupils’ comb black.

“...When you look so, I think you would have me on the floor.”

“Yes,” says England.

Portugal trips over his own feet. Iberians are so straightforward about things they forget that honesty is a weapon too, sharp enough to slide like a stiletto between one’s ribs, aimed straight for the heart. Just because England favours some of the tools in her arsenal more than others does not mean she has not practiced with _all_ of them, enough to be decent, enough to be deadly, enough to get her what she wants - which is, right now, Portugal spread out on his bed for her, England kissing him thoroughly, settled insistently in his lap.

Portugal has his hands on the points of her panniers, finding their angles through the layers of dress and petticoats. He seems distracted by the feel of the satin, as lost in the sensation of the pattern as he is by England mouthing at his jaw, tracing down the firm tendons of his throat with a lazy tongue. “These need to be gone.”

England _hm_ s, leaving another sucking kiss low behind Portugal’s ear, where the loop of his curls hang heaviest, before raising her head. “And who says that _you_ will be the one deciding things tonight?”

Straddling Portugal, England is close enough to feel his breath upon her face, the hitch of it shimmering through his broad shoulders, the quiet muscle of his arms and chest, and seizing something vital in England’s blood. There are things, things she wants from this ridiculously attractive man who is her captive and captor both, her dear friend and her sweet lover and _oh,_ she knows him, knows his mind and his body and his lands. She knows him well.

Knows him, and knows the precise moment that he gives in to his own curiosity, into pleasure and the knowledge that whatever games England wishes to play will be to his own benefit as much as hers. Something bright and wicked passes through his expression, loosens in his jaw, and - one breath, two - he sweetly succumbs, licking the blossoming bruises of kisses on his lips and fixing her with a look that is at once both interested and inflammatory.

“...As the lady commands then.”

For England, it is like a dropped torch in a hayloft. The submission, the _trust_ of it, is more potent an aphrodisiac than anything she has imbibed that day save the taste of Portugal’s skin, and her nails dig into the meat of Portugal’s shoulders when she leans in, unable to help herself taking another kiss from him, grounding herself with more of the drug that has them in this mess to begin with.

When she has control, of herself, of both of them, spellbound, she straightens up again. Lets her tone run cool as counterpoint to the heated air. “Very well then.” She quite calmly slides herself off of Portugal’s lap and bed, ignoring his aborted noise of protest and giving him a quelling look before he can reach for her again with his hands. “Strip.”

His face twisted up in a pretty _moue_ of discontent, Portugal obliges her, pulling up his feet so that he can unbuckle his shoes and toss them off the bed. That done, he pauses and looks at England, his expression clearly implying that he feels that he has done quite enough already to have her sitting on his lap and giving him kisses again.

Despite passing as a gentleman on occasion, England has not yet reached the point where she is ready to swoon at the simple sight of a well-turned ankle. She lifts her eyebrow at Portugal, a polite _do get on with it,_ and removes herself further from him, to the footboard of the bed, leaning her weight upon it comfortably where she can still watch Portugal perform his pouting show.

Now looking even _further_ put-upon, Portugal continues removing his clothing, pulling one knee after another up to his chest so that he can unroll the hem of his breeches and undo the ribbon tied about his calf that keeps each of his white stockings in place.

England rewards him by sliding off the arms of her open robe, carefully folding the satin and draping it across the back of the nearest chair. She can feel _eyes_ on her spine, but pays them no mind until she has fetched her pincushion, beginning the careful task of removing the pins closing her dress’ matching bodice. “ _Yes?_ ” she asks somewhat pointedly, looking once more at Portugal even as she removes another shining pin.

Portugal swallows. He had never buttoned up his waistcoat properly, letting all and anyone see his shift and the movements of his strong throat - and reveals more now, his fingers fumbling a little as he undoes the rest of the gold buttons, pulling off the long sleeves, the expanse of beautiful faille, all his embroidered silken flowers. All the waistcoat’s fineness ends up on the floor with his stockings and slippers, and Portugal’s breeches follow soon after, opened and pulled down over his hips with an arched movement upwards that is a far cry from _sinuous,_ but reminds England very strongly of the way Portugal’s arse keeps his seat when they go horse-riding, following the motion of the beast beneath him with the trained muscles in his thighs.

It is… something of a delight to see those muscles (those _thighs_ ) again without any fabric in the way. Tossing his breeches carelessly across the room - is it any _wonder_ there had been used clothing covering the chessboard? -, Portugal’s shift is still tucked between his legs, unintentionally showing off the hard curves of his legs. The skin there is as tanned from the sun as the rest of him, smooth caramel in the candlelight and fascinating shadows. (England must _really_ find out where it is Portugal goes to let his legs see the sun, for she cannot see a serious tan-line on any of his limbs, not even when she lazily lets his eyes wander higher, to the narrower point of his hips. With that sort of coverage, the sun probably sees a _lot_ more of Portugal than just his legs.)

When Portugal reaches to pull off his shift, England halts him with a firm _wait,_ leaving her bodice with her dress and going back to the side of the bed. Portugal turns towards her, tipping his face into her hands against his cheeks and sitting obediently still when England slips her hands back from his face to the nape of his neck, pulling out the black velvet ribbon in his hair.

England roughly combs out the freed curls with her fingers, spreading Portugal’s hair about his face and over his shoulders. Perhaps she is a little too focused when doing so; Portugal’s chuckle vibrates in his throat under her palms, his eyes bright and teasing when he looks up at her. “Tenho uma cara bonita, hã?”

_Cara bonita -_

“You have a very high opinion of your looks,” England says, but cannot help but smile along with Portugal, leaning down just enough to chastely kiss him, taste his laughter for herself. He has more than a pretty face (and knows it), but she hardly wants to indulge him and give him a swelled head.

Portugal huffs a laugh when the kiss ends, his hands on England’s panniers again as he leans forwards, resting his forehead against England’s chest with a soft little _bump_ that echoes through England’s heart. Tucked under England’s chin, England cradles him there, returning to absently carding her fingers through Portugal’s mess of curls.

“Would you like it if I fuck you?”

The last of Portugal’s breath flees him all at once; the small jerk of it testing the loose cage of England’s arms. She stills her hands in case he wants to pull away from her, but Portugal merely tilts his head up further, his cheek soft on the line between her stay and skin. (Portugal likes treading along thresholds, the pad-pad of paw-prints just over the line, just enough to remind you that they are still there.) “...You have what you need?”

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t.” England’s little locked box is kept for travelling, for the games they like to play. And Anne had thought her mistress might need it that evening. (Anne might be a little more savvy than her mistress gives her credit for.) England lightly runs her fingertips around the curve of Portugal’s ear, tucking back a heavy lock of his hair. “As the lady commands, wasn’t it?”

Portugal nods consent, shifting back on the bed a little with open desire in his eyes. He smiles at England and… and perhaps, if she were feeling more cruel, if she were not already so wound-up, England might make him beg for it, bring him to the point where he cannot tell which language it is anymore that he pleads in for release, but she wants too much herself to draw it out so long.

England fetches her box from where it wrapped in her cloak on the commode and returns to Portugal, allowing him to assist her in unlacing her petticoats, one by one by one again, her panniers and pockets likewise undone and laid aside. Anne always laces England’s stays so that England can undo them without aid, a knot at the bottom that she can reach back and tug free rather than having to hope (usually vainly) for a companion who is competent with corsetry. Off comes the stay, the laces loose and trailing and the body pulled down England’s arms, and up goes one of England’s feet into the space between Portugal’s thighs again, his fingers working on unbuckling her shoe.

Portugal has always been one a little too pleased to watch layers come off. England’s clothes work as both weapons and armour, but Portugal… Portugal has little issue with losing his outer layers _and_ his shift, going topless (and thus _underwear_ -less) on hot days on ships, in the private walls of his rooms or intimate gardens. So comfortable in his own skin, Portugal sometimes seems to forget that not _everyone_ has a body like his, is as eager to lose their clothing and burn in the goddamned sun like him - but his enthusiasm, England will concede, is certainly… _something_ in the bedroom, his mouth on her leg even as he undoes her shoes, trailing lazy open-mouthed kisses up her thighs as he unties the ribbons of her stocking and pulls that down too. England _might_ have to drop her fist on his head to get him to stop being so distracting and take off her stocking and shoe on the other leg, but the retaliation of his teeth scraping the sensitive skin of her other thigh shivers her out of calling him ridiculous.

Grabbing the cloth at the nape of Portugal’s neck and tugging his shift up over his head does a little to end Portugal’s nonsense. His mouth, still open from where he had been lavishing an obscene amount of attention to the barely-exposed skin at England’s hipbone, makes a strangled sound at this half-hearted attempt to smother him with his own clothing, and he fights a flapping fight with his own linen sleeves before he claims his triumph, emerging the rumpled and naked victor of a great many wet fantasies.

England’s simple coiffure suffers a little when she removes her own shift, a few wisping strands of blonde tickling down the back of her neck and around her face. Her necklace she leaves on, a little glittering authority for Portugal to rest his eyes on when his smile turns lascivious and he looks her slowly up, down, and up again, and England places her hand on Portugal’s chest when he is done (or, truly, as done as he will ever be), coaxing him back, further back, on the covers of the bed and following after him.

England had been wrong, before, when she had thought Portugal had no tan-lines. His upper half, before hidden by his shift, is darker than his lower; a testament to the hot afternoons when he had stripped off his propriety with his clothing and done a sailor or labourer’s work, bent over a chair back to have his wounds tended or receive another tattoo. The _exact_ lines are difficult to make out in the candlelight, against the distracting trail of hair down Portugal’s chest, but they are as warm as the rest of him, his heart beating hot and fast against England’s spread palm, the shock of _so much warm skin_ making them both hiss when England stretches her body long above and against his, moulding tan to pale and heat to blessed heat.

They kiss, enjoying the simple shift of skin on skin, rediscovering the small wonder that is one body ending where another begins. England very much enjoys the feeling of Portugal under her, the rumble of his laughter when her hands flutter over a ticklish spot, the way he arches when she lightly drags her nails down across the dark lines of the compass rose tattoo spread over his side. Portugal has always been a beautifully hedonistic _ass -_ and a shockingly tactile lover, every brush of his mouth, his hands, his hair, his skin, setting England’s nerves further and further alight, her blood and bones all but humming in resonance with the man beneath her. Portugal’s bruised mouth finds her neck, smears smiling kisses across England’s nose and lips and cheek, and his hands rub her shoulder-blades, as though trying to lazily press out all their sharpness, his fingertips stroking over England’s ribs and hips in thoughtless patterns before possessively cupping her rear.

England lets him melt her, mould her, play with her body - but draws the line with a soft gasp when Portugal’s questing hands try their luck between her legs, the heat of his rising cock rutting lazily against her abdomen until England breaks off all their kisses and lays her forearm firmly across her opportunistic lover’s throat.

“I don’t think so,” she tells Portugal’s somewhat languorous grin, a little breathless but still stern enough to press _down_ with her arm until Portugal’s breath hitches, his eyelashes fluttering like mantilla lace in the wind as his hands return from their southern exploits to a _safe_ location at England’s waist. Only then does England take her weight off Portugal’s windpipe, brushing away the long strands of his hair that have stuck to his face and accepting his light apologetic kisses to her fingertips, the rueful crook of his smile.

(Acquiescence only lasts for as long as one can maintain it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kind of debauchery was always easier to write (and post) when the kinkmeme was more used. *loud and ancient sighing* Despite the fact the next chapter picks up immediately where this one left off, I broke it (roughly) in half for posting because it felt absurd to have the first chapter being just over 6000 words, and the second treble that amount. Excessively detailed smut scene is excessive.
> 
> Credit for Portugal’s rose compass tattoo can be laid squarely at tumblr user Hoofkin’s door. Check out the lady’s (incredible) art if you want an idea of what it looks like.
> 
>  _Engageantes_ : those frilly bits/scalloped ruffles on the edges of 18th-century ladies’ gowns. Sometimes the frills were caused by the puffs of the specially-designed shift/chemise being pulled through the sleeve, but around this period, with the favouring of the _robe à la française_ , most engageantes were stitched onto the main gown.
> 
> Some of the desserts mentioned this chapter: [chocolate cream and caraway comfits](http://twonerdyhistorygirls.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/conceits-comfits-creams-more-on-18th.html), and the [marzipan animals ](https://standrewsrarebooks.wordpress.com/2014/06/05/52-weeks-of-historical-how-tos-week-32-to-make-a-hedge-hog/)(in this case, an adorable as all hell hedgehog)
> 
> [A brief history of beds](https://www.onekingslane.com/info/home/the-history-of-the-bed/), if you want to appreciate research on objects so mundane it feels a little ludicrous to actually _need_ to research it. (Link includes info on _angel beds_.) England is exaggerating somewhat about _all_ beds having canopies, although not at all in her (Northern European) expectations that rich people should have canopied beds. The bed was the most expensive item of furniture in anybody’s house, and the French were setting a fashion with the types of canopies their beds had, so wealth + fashion dictates that Portugal should have a pretty damn good bed. Unfortunately for England, the Portuguese went ahead and designed something different...
> 
> Portugal’s chesspieces are a _Pepys_ chess-set, so named after a board and pieces given to Samuel Pepys by James II of England/Scotland/Ireland etc. You can see their design [here](http://richardgardnerantiques.co.uk/product/5830/IVORY+PEPYS+CHESS+SET).
> 
> Portugal’s [‘ticklish head’](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish%E2%80%93Portuguese_War_%281735%E2%80%9337%29) during the chess game.


	3. iii

It takes a significant amount of willpower, but England slips off her perch above Portugal, kneeling beside him on the bed. “Roll over.”

To his credit, Portugal almost immediately does as he is told, moving onto his belly and then up onto his hands and knees - though not without a quick quip of _ão ão_ , his teeth gleaming once more when he looks back over his shoulder at England. “Or should I say _woof?_ ”

“That depends,” says England mildly, laying one of her hands atop her wooden box. A thread of her magical gift touches it, a faint green light glowing for half a minute between lid and base, “does the doggy want a bone or a smack?”

Portugal shuts up, and England opens her box.

Although the outside of the box is plain walnut wood, the inside has been lined with thick, dark blue velvet. The material serves as some protection for the box’s contents on England’s travels, swaddling the more delicate contents - a few individually-wrapped glass phials full of oil - to keep them from breakage, and hiding the items… of a more intimate nature - this time, a lacquered rosewood dildo, and a soft, well-worn leather harness made to fit around a dildo for use with _companions -_ from curious servants.

Though it sinks more easily into the skin, oil keeps better than fat over time and distance, and needs less warming before it is liquid enough to use. Conscious of Portugal’s dark eyes watching her, England carefully unstoppers one of the phials and drizzles some of its contents onto her fingers, thoughtfully rubbing it between her forefinger and thumb until the motion glides and the oil has dripped down to coat her knuckles.

Portugal shivers when that hand goes between his legs, a beautiful flush darkening his throat, the wet pink head of his leaking cock. It is said that a man’s lips are the same soft colour as his cock-head, so you may kiss the same blushing hue whether you are visiting in the north or south - but Portugal’s lips are darker, bitten down on when England breaches him with one slow, gentle finger. Sitting at his side, and with the angle too awkward for England to kiss the ache out of his mouth, England settles for brushing small, soothing kisses to Portugal’s back and shoulder instead, watching his expression attentively under her lashes for any sign of true discomfort as her finger begins a careful, careful, back and forth. In and out, in and deeper, out and in.

Finding no signs of pain, England adds a second finger. Even for one who likes the stretch like herself, England knows that the initial _clench_ is always the worst part of it, the body struggling between the instinctive desire to bear down and push _out_ rather than accept the increasing thickness sliding resolutely in. To ease Portugal through it she keeps her strokes slow, smooth, pulling her hand away completely at one point to apply more oil, lazily dragging her thumb over his twitching hole just to watch the frisson of sensation it sparks up her lover’s back, Portugal’s body jerking and his cock bumping up against the hard planes of his stomach.

“I think I’d like a portrait of you like this,” England says conversationally, leaning so that she can rest her head against Portugal’s shoulder. His skin has become even hotter than it was before, beads of sweat trembling in the hollows of his throat and collarbone, clinging along his hairline, like tiny jewels for the candlelight to catch. “What angle would you recommend?”

 _“Inglaterra…_ ”

“A statue might do you better justice from all sides, but those are a great deal more difficult to hide from peering eyes and, thus, explain.” England drags her slick fingers along Portugal’s perineum, pressing a little harder at the taut skin behind his balls to feel all the muscles in motion in the body beside her, Portugal pressing back into her hand with a soft _ha._ “Perhaps if we stick a crown of laurels upon your brow, we could claim it is a cultural piece, a rendering of some Greek god or other.”

“You think,” Portugal has to pause, England’s free hand finding his mouth, her fingers pushing down on the swell of his lower lip to feel the imprint left there by his teeth, “I have the body of a Greek god?”

“With some artistic licence allowed, of course,” says England, and Portugal closes his teeth lightly on her fingertips in retaliation. “Himeros, perhaps. Or Dionysus. I could stick you in a fountain.”

Portugal’s shoulders quiver with sudden laughter between his heavier breathing, bumping against the smile England turns against his skin. “I do not remember Ariadne saying _that_ in the epics.”

“Clearly _my_ readings of the epics were more interesting than yours.” England works her fingers back inside of Portugal again, adding a third digit to ease him open.

Portugal hisses quietly at the additional stretch, dropping his head and turning his face away from England’s hand. He will be biting his lip again, for he has always made her work for his more vocal reactions in the bedroom (well, on the occasions that they _made_ it to a bedroom). It is not intentional - when it _is,_ he does it to tease her, to make her huff frustratedly so he can laugh as he kisses her brow -, but natural Portuguese reticence, too much of Portugal used to holding his tongue and turning over the thoughts in his head like England turns the earth for her garden’s rich roses.

(Portugal is among the quietest of England’s frequent lovers, though he gets pouty and demanding with her if he feels neglected, wretchedly dangerous with his sweetness and ability to _cling_ like the (much smaller than him!) monkey he had once given her. France, in comparison, is… an open wound and a complication, as changeable in his ways and nature as a sea-wind, and the Netherlands had been efficient, quiet with England save for that sharp wit of his that had had England snorting into his shoulder, his insults biting at her mouth - sometimes like the first spark on a fireship, sometimes at play. Hanover has an easy grin and a tendency for ridiculous German endearments he thinks his bedmates want to hear - but he talks less than _Prussia,_ who England would rather drink with than fuck until the alcohol has finished aiding the once-knight in tripping over his own flustered tongue and feet. Belgium gasps very prettily when surprised, as free with her baked sweets as she is with her moans and her laughter, and Spain had once made sweet, enthusiastic noises as well when he had summoned the interest and they had been wedded and bedded. Nowadays he is all hot eyes and hotter anger - but still loud, still straining against his bonds when derisive eyes flick his way.)

Portugal does not need to turn over his thoughts when England is in bed beside him. There are so few things that England needs to tuck away when she is with Portugal, leaving some of the softest parts of her open to the light of his company. It is only fair that he be at ease enough to return the favour, not thinking but just sensing, feeling, _being_ with England, existing in just the moment rather than stretching out into the centuries their kind inhabit. Life can be wearisome when you must live it for almost forever. Opposite of those with a more finite existence, narrowing down the borders at times (with pretence, apathy or deliberate ignorance) is a little liberation.

Portugal’s pretty flush has spread down to his chest, a heavy tinge of pink to all his skin that the candlelight can brush. Rocking back into England’s touch, he balances his weight on one arm and reaches down to stroke himself - only to have his hand batted away, England clicking her tongue chidingly at Portugal’s frustrated whine and shifting so she can can circle her own hand around the hot weight of his cock instead. She pumps him slowly, her grip firm but her pace much more sedate and lazy than Portugal clearly desires, for he bucks forwards erratically into the curl of England’s hand until she squeezes him tightly enough that he subsides again, forced to content himself with what he is given though he shudders with the effort.

It is not until England slips her thumb over the wet slit at the end of his cock, dragging the pad of it slowly back-and-forth across the stickiness dripping helplessly out of him, that Portugal gives her another one of those lovely full-body shivers of his, another soft noise slipping free from his mouth and thrumming the heat still pooling between England’s own legs. The muscles tense first in Portugal’s calves and thighs, his arse clenching hard around the oil-slick fingers England is still lazily thrusting into him, before the motion ripples up his back and into the rest of his body like a rolling wave.

Portugal really is quite beautiful when he is being fucked, a fine sheen of sweat marking his shoulders now, his chest expanding and contracting with breaths heavy enough that England cannot help but see them, even from behind. She smiles, presses that smile sweet and wet and open-mouthed at the base of Portugal’s spine, and crooks her fingers just enough to rub Portugal inside where he likes it, Portugal’s body shuddering around a hard pant and a choked-off _querida,_ his chin buried in his chest and his eyes screwed shut.

“Too much?” England asks him, carefully, lifting her head. She has his salt on her lips, an interesting compliment to the sweetness earlier.

“Enough - _enough._ Fuck me; fode-me, fode -”

“Say _please_ ,” England teases, ruthless as she stills her hand around Portugal’s cock, the fingers of her other hand still pressing small, slow, _hard_ circles inside of Portugal, against some of the most sensitive of his nerves. Oh, the wonders of male anatomy.

“ _Inglaterra, por amor de Deus.”_

Close enough. Portugal huffs a breath to blow some of his curls out of his face when England pulls away from him, leaving him empty and untouched other than the idle hand that rubs some of the excess remaining oil off on the jut of his hip. It leaves a small smear of golden slickness in the candlelight, matching the gleaming mess gathering between Portugal’s thighs, oil and sweat and precome slowly trickling down his skin.

Perhaps Portugal simply has a messy nature.

He gives England the large and wounded eyes again over his shoulder when England ignores him, too busy with securing her dildo in its place on her harness, the harness’ leather straps buckling comfortably around her thighs.

It always feels a little absurd donning one of the _signors,_ a sudden extra weight around the abdomen and an unwieldy, unquestionably _hard-_ to-miss appendage dangling between England’s legs. Blithely obscene, the dildo pulls at the straps keeping it relatively in place and gets in the way of the smooth movement of the rest of England’s limbs.

For all they name the manufactured version after an Italian, there is nothing particularly graceful about a cock - many other adjectives, perhaps, but certainly not _graceful_ -, though they can be crafted quite beautifully. The fine dildos with heads of wood and bodies of stiff leather are quite popular at the moment, the material imitating some of the softness and give of human anatomy. That type are, however, such a pain to _clean,_ especially after having accessed the back door.

England prefers solid pieces. They are easier to clean, for one, and are something unyielding to clench around, a relentless giving and giving and _giving._ At home she has a beautiful (and quite expensive) silver dildo - its surface crafted with a pattern of winding, interlocking vines, it is as stimulating to look at as it is to _use -_ but it is far too heavy to carry everywhere with her. There are other more complicated types with… _mechanisms_ there as well - which were risqué gifts made to England that she would rather not admit to owning anymore since the days of her vivacious Merry Monarch are well and truly _done -_ but for the purposes of her visit to Portugal a much simpler piece made of lacquered rosewood had seemed more than sufficient. Its flared base keeps it quite secure in a harness (or a hand), and its head and shaft are carved smoothly enough to avoid discomfort but with enough textured rippling on the surface to make it a very pleasurable private companion.

Portugal seems to appreciate the rippling, shivering himself to a choking wreck around England’s dildo when she kneels behind him, slicking it up and sliding it into him in one long, smooth thrust. Holding the lacquered cock deep inside of him, England stills to give Portugal a chance to get his breathing back under control, and adjust to the new girth spreading him open. His arse-cheeks dimple when he clenches, clenches again, a soft little dip for England to drag her fingertips over as she laments, for a brief moment, not being able to feel those incredible muscles working around her, tight around her flesh rather than polished wood.

That is not to say there is not a great deal of pleasure in what England already _has._ Just the _sight_ of Portugal, head bowed, flushed and wet and wanting with his knees spreading wider on the bedcover by the moment, hits England hard in the stomach, arousal raking its fiery claws down her belly she, too, grows wet between her thighs, aching to grind herself, ground herself, on something. Anything. _Portugal._

“Está bem?” England asks Portugal softly, rubbing calming hands down his back. She cannot stop touching him, the connection an anchor for both of them, ship to seabed, her hands slipping lightly over Portugal’s ribs, the narrowing of his waist. England had not quite managed to get all the oil off of one of her hands; her fingers and palm leave shining prints on Portugal’s skin everywhere she touches, a greedy claim to everything she can reach, her hands fitting over Portugal’s hips, her thumbs rubbing soothingly at the shadowed hollows of his bones. “Love?”

“...Bem,” Portugal murmurs back to her, still sounding rough, a little breathless. Something flutters inside England’s ribcage in response. “Sim,” rocking back against England now, more forcefully, though England’s hips are already flush with his backside, “ _sim._ ”

“Articulate,” England teases him, but her hips start off as staccato as Portugal’s syllables, for when she pulls back, drawing the dildo out of him so she can thrust, Portugal immediately follows her, refusing to allow her to withdraw more than half her _signor_ ’s length. “ _Demanding,_ ” England chides, amending her previous descriptor, but Portugal only chuckles, rough and whimsical as gunpowder smoke, and carries right on with what he is doing.

England rolls her eyes, at first, and lets him get on with it. It makes a change; Portugal might be an enthusiastic and attentive lover, but if he _can_ get out of doing any work in the bedroom he frequently _will._ Naturally, he will probably use this evening as an excuse for the next _decade_ about why England - and other partners brought to Portugal’s bed with her - should be the one putting in the effort when they go forth and endeavour to add a few pages to Portugal’s weekly penitential essay for his beleaguered confessor, but, with the future still hazy and those ridiculous justifications as yet unsaid, it feels quite worth it for the sight of Portugal fucking himself on England’s donned cock. England spreads his cheeks for a better view as he rocks back against her, her throat drying up as she watches the smooth dark wood vanish inside of Portugal again and again.

Eased open with oil and fingers, Portugal takes what England can give him like he was born to take it, his flanks gleaming gold with oil and sweat, his dark hair tossed impatiently over his shoulder as he moves, out of his face, like some proud Andalusian. Seized by fancy, England leans forward to grasp at some of that storm-swept mane, pulling back the reins. She is drunk on fascination at the arch it makes of Portugal’s back, her gaze following the tension in Portugal’s straining throat, his curls gilded with candlelight tangled up in her fist.

 _“Wo,_ ” England murmurs, rocking back into Portugal, slower, slower, pressing herself to his rear and then over his back to ease some of the pull on his muscles, slow some of the urgency that will gallop Portugal away too quickly. She has to slip one hand to his hip to _hold_ him there, steady, feeling the quiver in his thighs, his ribcage rising and dropping dramatically beneath her breasts.

England is not tall enough to reach Portugal’s face from behind him. Instead, she kisses between his shoulder-blades, nuzzling gently, gently, at the sweat-slick skin. “Wo, my darling.”

Portugal is hot and trembling. “ _Inglaterra-”_

“ _Shh,_ ” England soothes, and unspins her hand from her lover’s hair to stroke down the tense muscles of one of Portugal’s arms. It slips up again, slowly caressing, to spread underneath them, against the wild thumping of Portugal’s heart in his chest, the hard slap of the water against the hulls of the ships on the Tagus. “Breathe for me.”

Portugal breathes. In, out, an evening breeze fluttering and slowly filling white sails dyed golden by the sunset. In, out, and England carries them with the tide, beginning a slow and steady back and forth motion with her hips, short thrusts that grind deep and keep her skin to Portugal’s heat. So slow, Portugal cannot _help_ but feel every little rippling groove on the dildo as it slides in and out of him, in and out, each bump dragging at his sensitive entrance and the hidden nerves inside of him. He moans, low and aching, swaying back again into England - and then forward again, into the firm, warm hand England wraps around his cock once more, stroking him to their shared rhythm.

Snared by her own net, England mouths kisses to all that she can reach, across Portugal’s shoulder-blades, dipping into the valleys of his back, the smooth roads of Portugal upon which his people bear their lives: to sea, to court, to market, to home, to church. They are shimmering flecks of dust, glimmering sweat in the candlelight, upon a giant’s back, there and gone in the blink of an eye.

Suddenly and quite badly, England needs to see Portugal’s face. She draws out of Portugal to the low whine of displeasure in his throat, urging him over onto his back and dragging a pillow down from atop the bed’s bolster to tuck under his lower back and rear, angling his hips up for England to ease into him again even before she leans down to kiss him.

Portugal is spread out like a shipwreck. His legs fall open around England’s waist and his dark hair forms tangled whirlpools on the blue satin bedcover beneath them, the foam of the bright embroidery flashing through the strands like seafolk from the deep. He is doing his valiant best to _pout_ before England kisses him, a somewhat wobbling remonstration at being ordered around the bed and not being fucked for half a minute, but his kisses are soon as demanding as the rest of him, his mouth drawing at the questing of England’s tongue, one of his hands suddenly very warm and rough and large as it cups England’s breast, kneading with the swell of his palm.

England has to breathe in sharply at the sensation - it would be too easy to drown in -, and realises she is slipping down Portugal’s body again, pushed apart by the difference in their heights. She has to bend Portugal back upon himself (not in _half;_ he is not _that_ kind of flexible) to close the distance, lifting the solid weight of his legs over her forearms, elbows, and kissing him _properly_ as she continues to thrust, tasting candlelight and shadows, each pant of breath knocked out of Portugal by the collision of England’s hips to his.

Portugal’s legs slip when England pushes closer yet - she has to support herself with one hand splayed on the bed, and Portugal’s grip moves to her shoulders, clutching England like a drowning man. His cock is heavy and swollen against his stomach, rubbing urgently against England when she bends Portugal yet further over and presses close, its head smearing constant wetness against her belly, making Portugal thrust up and back harder against her for the slippery friction. God, there is power in that - power and blatant arousal, the heat rubbing up against England and flaring through her with the knowledge of what she can _do_ with Portugal, what a ruin she can make of him. He would thank her for it as well, mouthing kisses and nonsense in his native tongue too scattered for England to catch against her lips, the pulse beating hard in her throat.

Despite straining, striving for it, Portugal’s release seems to take him by surprise. His lips part - an _oh_ unsaid but visible all the same -, spilling himself between his body and England’s in sticky abandoned bursts as his fingers tighten painfully hard on England’s shoulders. (She will have a constellation of bruises there, come morning, ten purpling stars like the inverse of Venus at dusk on her skin.)

England rides him through it, easing Portugal down from his peak with slower and slower thrusts, until his grip softens, his whole body softening with it, and his breathing starts anew with one great shuddering breath. England slides in deep and deliberate then, to finish it, pushing her little attached toy against that place inside of Portugal to press one last dribble out of his limp cock, another trickle of warm wetness on her skin as Portugal groans, his eyes fluttering closed in pained pleasure.

The closed eyelids, the fluttering lashes… carefully letting her weight fall to rest on Portugal, England kisses each of them lightly, skimming each touch butterfly-light down his face until she can kiss Portugal’s mouth again, coaxing his slack lips to part with soft slight laps of her tongue. She tips his head to meet hers with gentle fingers under his jaw, feeling the rabbit-fast _thump_ of his heart through her skin, and waits for Portugal’s scattered wits to regroup.

Portugal has all the little specks of candlelight caught in his eyes when he slowly, eventually, peers out from under his lashes at her again, his smile against England’s mouth crooking upwards lazily with all the contentment of, even if England says so herself, the well-fucked.

“Ahoy there,” England murmurs, smiling back up at Portugal as she makes herself quite comfortable settled on his chest.

“A _hoy_ ,” Portugal parrots back to her. He _mmm_ s in sated pleasure, carefully stretching out under England so that he does not jostle her, relaxing the last of the tenseness clinging to his ancient bones in their sheath of mortal skin before he settles comfortably again.

There is so _much_ of him compared to England, and, though it does make him a temptingly good pillow, it is _entirely unfair_ that he went away to the New World as slim as England had been - and still _is -_ and came back looking like they had somehow crossbred his fawnish childhood figure with a particularly sturdy baby elephant. _England’s_ puberty had only obliged her by letting her get taller - yet _still_ not as tall as her brothers, Portugal, and goddamned France - and impossibly thinner, and, though she is very much a woman now, she is told she is still very much the sharp fae creature she has _always_ been, with knives for cheeks and knees and elbows. She has muscles, too, from running and riding and archery, lithe as a cat - but Portugal’s muscles are _hard_ under the tempting give of his skin, and resting against him is like leaning against an old mossy wall warmed by the sun.

Post-coital satisfaction reveals the siren beneath and behind the shipwreck; a dangerous loveliness. _Portugal_ is dangerous like this, in the best way, low-lashed and languorous, and his hands slide up the slopes of England’s back to distract her from her internal sulk, one settling over the ribbon at her nape so he can bring her down, down, moving his mouth over hers in a slow, consuming kiss. Though she would still give him hell for sinking one of her ships, England has never met one of the merfolk, real or metaphorical, she would be more content to be drowned by than Portugal - Portugal’s methods are certainly _pleasanter,_ at least, surrounding England in the warmth of his arms, of his body, of his kisses, golden and comforting.

When England can finally pry herself away - and it is, quite literally, prying, skin sticking unpleasantly and willpower hard to find -, she peels herself from Portugal and the bed to head towards the chamber’s basin stand. There is a gold-rimmed, blue-patterned porcelain basin and ewer set waiting there, and the ewer is, England is pleased to discover, full of water - though said water is, by now, unfortunately _cold._ Something a little warmer would have been preferred, but England is certainly not going to call for a goggling servant just for a little heated water, not when she and Portugal are… _improper._ (On the very far end of the scale away from _proper,_ actually, but England has been further away before, many times before, so by now this sort of distance feels like a delicate middle ground, the space declared so for familiarity if nought else.)

England removes her necklace before doing anything else, setting down the precious choker so that the silver and garnets lie in a bed of the red silk ribbon that had been keeping the jewels tied around England’s neck. Next to go is the harness, a series of buckles to undo to free England’s waist and legs - and though it does not _sparkle_ as finely as the choker does, England takes as much care setting the piece down. She hardly wants to _damage_ such a favoured toy and its trappings - though she can _hardly_ put the lot immediately back in her box in its current state. As a concession to its currently (very) _used_ status, England leaves it in a spare (clean) chamberpot instead.

Though their master’s room is hardly the tidiest bedchamber England has ever been in, Portugal’s servants at least seem to keep his toiletries well-stocked. Pouring out a little of the water in the ewer, England is pleased to note there are drawers full of soaps and cleaning tools underneath the top of the basin stand, and more than a few linen cloths laid out beside the basin. After washing the last of the oil off of her hands, she wets one, to rub away the sweat on her face, dragging the cloth down her throat to clean away the traces of her exertions and some of the day’s perfumes.

With England’s skin still so heated, the coolness is a strange pleasurable shock, the change in temperature pebbling the flesh down England’s arms and making her nipples harden and ache. Attending to Portugal’s needs - however willingly - had been a distraction from England’s own, but now, in the aftermath of his orgasm, and without relief of her own, even wiping down her breasts and stomach strums the strings of heat that have been vibrating inside of England all _day,_ her body sensitive to even the brush of air over her damp skin as she turns, going back to the bed with another unused cloth and the basin full of water.

Aside from tipping his head slightly - all the better to watch England wash through his half-closed eyes -, Portugal has not moved from where England left him. He looks as though he is going to fall asleep just as he is, actually, his body sprawled on top of the covers, his front streaked with his own spend, and his arse still pointing up in the air due to being propped up by a pillow.

“You’re a mess,” England informs him, both pleased and exasperated, sitting on the edge of the bed with one leg tucked up underneath her. The porcelain basin is very cold in her lap.

Portugal just gives her a very sleepy, satisfied smile, a _hmm_ in his throat. If he were more awake, he would be chuckling. As it is, his hand slides across the bedcover, fingertips rising just enough so they can stroke over England’s knee. “Parabéns.”

Having one’s _knee_ stroked should not feel so good. England’s leg locks into place.

Portugal’s fingertips keep dragging, drawing a slow, whimsical pattern. One big spiral swirl, followed by the outline of a crescent moon. “I need to make a mess of _you_ now.” His voice is sleep-rough, persuasive. It makes his accent thick as cool, dark honey, dripping off the spoon at the same slow pace it erodes England’s defences.

England cannot move her leg. She _can,_ however, stick her elbows out and make herself thoroughly busy wetting the second cloth she had brought over, fussing away some of the flush she can feel creeping up the back of her neck. “What we _need_ is to get you cleaned up. You’re making a mess of the bed-linen.”

“Linen washes.” Portugal draws something that feels suspiciously like a loveheart, his smile as sweet and beguiling as a child’s.

“Not in time for me to sleep in it tonight, it doesn’t,” says England, and drops the cold wet cloth right on top of Portugal’s sleepy face.

Dutch sounds like an exceedingly drunk person trying to speak English in one of the northern British accents. German makes everything one says sound like a barked order or something obscene, however kind it might be. A lengthy speech in Castilian always puts England in mind of being lectured on hellfire and damnation, and French can make lying filth sound like a love song.

Portugal’s oaths, whilst vaguely religious in nature, are quite far from being holy, going from God to body fluids and around to the universal curse about shit in less than a breath and a half. It is actually quite delightful - or at the least, quite amusing, as Portugal does not tend to curse people out _that_ often in front of England.

Despite his swearing before he manages it, Portugal’s _face_ is curse enough when he finally claws the wet cloth out of his eyes, his nose wrinkled indignantly up at England and some of his curls sodden enough to cling to his cheeks and forehead. _“Inglaterra._ "

Somehow, after being thoroughly and happily buggered up the arse by a woman, it is only _now_ he manages to sound scandalised.

“Cleaning,” England reminds him, wickedly cheerful but not unkindly, and brushes one of the wet curls away from where it is trying to stick to Portugal’s eyelashes.

He sulks at her, ridiculous in his childishness, but pushes his head into her hand for petting. England obliges him, letting the weight of his head tip into her palm, her thumb stroking his cheek - but takes the cloth back from him as well, drawing it carefully down Portugal’s throat, wiping away the sweat at his collarbone. Across his shoulders, then slowly down his chest - Portugal shivers when England takes away the cloth to wet it again, a pebbling path of gooseflesh standing on his skin everywhere she has cleaned.

Late October in the Kingdom of Portugal is hot. The moisture will dry on their skin.

“I can…” Portugal begins, a vague _I can do that_ as he reaches for England’s hand, the cloth within it. England just hums, a soft, neutral note, and Portugal’s words remain unfinished, his fingers end up touching the back of England’s wrist, trailing light and thoughtless up to the crook of her elbow. His touch is barely there but still it makes the blue of England’s veins show more clearly, the ever-flowing rivers and streams of her home, the blood of her people, the dark inks of their words.

Portugal eventually sits up after England has carefully wiped away the mess coating his thighs, inelegantly wiggle-flopping off of the cushion that had propped him up for so long into something cross-legged. Their knees bump, re-align. Still swaying a little sleepily, at the sudden change in elevation, he sways closer to England, grimacing a little of the coolness of the cloth over his soft cock, the slight _tug_ as the creases of the material catch at where some of his spend has already dried into the short, sensitive hairs that trail down his belly and surround his manhood. He offers England kisses again - ignored -, and so settles for covering England’s hand with his own again, directing the cloth within its grasp to wipe down his chest and stomach more quickly.

“All clean,” he decides after a few brief wipes, squeezing England’s hand.

England intends to argue, for Portugal has missed more than a few spots in his haste, gleaming in the candlelight - but the particular mulish _set_ of Portugal’s jaw suggests she might have a mutiny on her hands should she try. Instead, she settles for taking her hand back to wash, leaving the cloth floating forlornly in the now soiled water. “Your _body_ might be clean, but what comes out of your _mouth_ certainly isn’t.”

Portugal’s eyebrows arch for the ceiling. “The lady who was thrusting a wooden penis into me less than half an hour ago should hardly be the one lecturing me on filth.” England flushes pink immediately, and Portugal seems pleased to have made her flush, taking hold of her wrist with one hand so he may tug her closer, the other taking the bowl from her hands and leaning over to place it on the floor. “Inglaterra.” He goes straight for the _nuzzling,_ his lips, the tip of his nose, dragging warm and ticklish against the warm skin at England’s throat. All dark honey again, melting into England’s blood. “Minha querida, meu amor, let me take care of you.”

England, currently having (nearly) each and every one of her weak spots laid siege to, would very much like to be taken _care_ of in the way Portugal is implying, his lips parting in wet, lazy kisses on her skin. But. Ah. Portugal has come already, and does not recover so quickly that he can get any more than half-hard at the moment.

England lets her gaze drop, confirming what she already knows. “You can hardly -”

“I have a mouth,” says Portugal, wholly undeterred. “I have hands.” Which he promptly uses to pull England even closer yet, arranging her in his lap so she straddles just one of his thighs. Her legs are spread by the position, the wetness of her arousal more evident with the night air touching it, darkening the blush in England’s cheeks to match the colour she knows flushes her sex when she has been taken this far.

Portugal does not help; he is so _warm,_ all over, warm and complicatedly simple, spreading his hands over the shivering skin of her waist like he is touching one of the intricate painted maps of his cartographers, each finger and line and thumb encompassing woods and hills, homes and wilds, English place names that trip off the tongue through history. Her island kingdom, cradled as safely in these moments in those lovely hands as Portugal holds his own lands between cool sea and shore.

England suddenly feels very conscious of her breathing, her ribs pushing into Portugal’s palms as she breathes in, his warmth following her back down again every time she breathes out. “So I see.”

His mouth is still on her throat. “You enjoy fucking me, _hã_ ?” There is _no_ way Portugal will have missed the hard leap of England’s pulse, and for an instant England feels the slightest sweet scrape of his teeth. “What is it you like most? The sounds I make when you fuck me? Pushing me down and keeping me there?”

Not expecting a sudden resurgence of _evil_ from Portugal after he had come, England is unprepared. And so she is embarrassed, when Portugal puts it so bluntly, for he is _not_ so quick with his filth in Portuguese. And _aching,_ for the way Portugal’s accent curls around _her_ language, _her_ words, _her_ obscenities, making each syllable _throb_ in her abdomen, in her sex, burning butterflies spinning up from inside her stomach to play havoc in her chest.

So England stabs out, flustered: “Do you prefer to have your ego stroked, or your cock?”

The words are not as dry as England would like them to be, too coloured by arousal, by the unexpected shift in the evening’s dynamics.

So Portugal blithely pays them no heed, set upon his own path to merry hell. _Damn_ him. “So embarrassed now - before, did you not threaten to have me on the floor? So impatient, you -”

“ _Y_ _ou’re_ calling _me_ impatient?”

“ _Não me interrompas_ ,” murmurs Portugal, and the earlier scrape of his teeth on England’s neck becomes a swift, sharp little nip of reprimand right where England had worn her necklace’s ribbon, enough to make her breath catch and her - temporarily - comply. She should fetch the damp cloth again; her skin feels too hot, candlelight burning in the air, burning within her, the tongues of flame flickering up to scorch everywhere Portugal’s body is against hers. “So impatient, you would have had my on the floor had I not come straight back to your arms, naked on the ground without your box of toys. Would you have taken your own pleasure then, first? Pushed me on my back, gripped my hair, put my face between your legs and rode it until you came?”

“Dear God - it would have been better than listening to you _talk._ ” England goes for Portugal’s hair since he has so clearly _fantasised_ about her doing so, fisting her fingers tight at his nape and pulling him sharply away from his lethal assault to her sensitive throat so he can look her in the face, red as she might be. “Why are you -”

She cannot _say_ it. The assuredness that comes with sure control has abandoned her, and she is - literally and figuratively - in Portugal’s hands now.

 _“Why,_ ” England finishes instead, lamely and exasperated.

Thankfully, Portugal knows her well enough to know what she means.

Unfortunately, he has also known her long enough to _tease,_ actually finding the audacity from somewhere to make his eyes go very wide at her, very innocent. “You do not like it?”

Despite how long _she_ has known _him,_ England might have actually thought Portugal’s question _sincere_ \- if only one of his hands had not found its way between her legs, cupping her thigh from behind and stroking her high, _high,_ on the inside. “I regret ever teaching you English.”

Portugal laughs. “You make me hard when you are honest.” England wants to wring his neck or fuck him again, a squirm of emotion inside her at the bright gleam of Portugal’s smile. “I should not tell my secrets, I know, not to someone who can be so ruthless and use them, but you know that one already, I believe. How dangerous.”

And how _droll._ England scrunches up her face at Portugal, letting her free hand steady herself on his shoulder. Her _dear friend_ happily wanders his way into danger (storm-chasing, Turk-baiting, and _running up to easily panicked elephants_ ) often enough without _any_ input on England’s part. “The danger makes you hard as well.”

(...And makes England a little stupid. Is Portugal ranking her at the same level of excitement as _elephants?_ )

“Most things about you make me hard,” says Portugal, direct as an arrow. It shoots the words straight out of England’s head - save a stunned, echoing _oh_ that seems to be filling her ribcage with the butterflies. “You are sharp and you are clever; you are very cruel in the most pleasing kind of way, and you are so, so very beautiful -”

It takes a moment for England to realise that the reason Portugal has stopped talking is because she has ducked her head and kissed him. Swift, soft-lipped, and chaste - and all the words that are too difficult to phrase. England kisses them all into Portugal’s lips, feeling the curve of his mouth spread beneath hers when her grip in his hair softens, his face tipped up against hers of his own volition.

England enjoys the drag of Portugal’s mouth against hers, the soft puff of air from his nose, and the slight tickle of some of his eyelashes against her cheek. All the little things add up and make Portugal hard to part from, and the contentment in his smile when England actually manages the feat just makes her want to lean in and kiss him again.

_I love you -_

England cannot recall a time when at least some small part of her was _not_ smitten by Portugal. In the first meeting of their childhood, he had been so slim, a pretty, remote creature with a messy braid around his neck and a somewhat bewildered expression when he had first looked down on England. The strange owner of the strange foreign land that _felt_ a whole new way to England than the other lands that had been trodden on by her feet. Their common languages had been begrudged French and crumbling Latin, the silent language that was two not-quite-children stretching out their legs side-by-side in the dust after a long, long battle, a hard-won victory giving them enough respite to pass some overly-sweet wine back and forth and wet their throats, smiling stupidly in the beginnings of friendship, in relief and exhaustion.

England remembers the livid wounds of those days, the purpling bruises, blistered hands and sunburnt cheeks. England remembers the dust, the horse-shit, the dried-in blood and the stinking sweat-stains on their tunics. And England also remembers that Portugal had seemed as lovely as the saints and angels sculpted for the greatest of churches, despite it all, like one of those statues who with a beautiful face and a bloody sword, the bright Iberian sun a halo around his head.

And she… she had been young and stupid, and possessed by the overwhelming _need_ for the foreigner to acknowledge her. Portugal had bore her attention as patiently as one of those statues she had likened him to, an icon serenely waiting out the many supplicants that came before it over the ages, listening to England chattering away to him though he had not understood her, talking back to her in turn with his words slow and deliberately careful so that they could start to pick out each other’s languages.

They had eaten together. They had sat together by the fire in the evenings, and talked. They had fallen asleep against each other once or twice, and woken stiff and aching the morning after. Once, England had accidentally clipped Portugal in the face with her _bow_ , because the idiot had tried to sneak up on her when she had been armed, and he had stalked around their base with a look of wounded _affront_ on his face for the rest of the day because she had thoroughly scolded him for trying to surprise her - and thus potentially end up with an _arrow_ through his heart - rather than apologise to him for his blackened eye. At some point, someone had informed Portugal that the little blonde Nation that was helping his people with their cause was _not_ a boy like England’s scrawniness had made her appear to be, though it had still taken him years, _centuries,_ to stop seeing her as a _little_ girl, loving her as a little friend-sister, and start seeing her as a girl, a young woman, a person that he could love in a more romantic - and certainly, as things have gone between them since, more sexual - way.

Affection-starved and smitten, England had hoarded the smiles Portugal had gifted her like a tiny triumphant dragon atop its mound of gold.

Many centuries on, less affection-starved but _still_ quite smitten, England still hoards Portugal’s smiles, a great deal more draconic about the little golden treasures which brighten her thoughts on more tiring, sadder days. And anything else he gives her, England taking the hand Portugal is trying to ply between her legs from behind, bringing it around the front instead and placing it directly on her sex, so that when shifts her hips forward she rides straight into the fleshy curve of his palm.

“As you like it?” Portugal asks her, sounding amused but perfectly agreeable to be re-arranged.

“I would like it a great deal _more_ if you did something with it,” England replies, cheeks now a solid pink, and curls her arms around Portugal’s neck. _Some_ of them still have not had any relief so far this evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excessively detailed smut scene is _still_ excessive, and it’s not finished yet because certain characters decided they wanted to talk about the past and elephants rather than get off. With many, many thanks to Hoof, who corrected my abysmal Portuguese.
> 
> Belgium was technically the Austrian Netherlands (1714-1797) at this point, or _Belgium Austriacum_. Although this also includes Luxembourg.
> 
> [ _Signor Dildo_](http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Texts/dildo.html) was a poem written by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, dating from around 1673. It was written in response to the objections raised against the king’s (Charles II’s) brother, James, the Duke of York, marrying Mary of Modena, an Italian Catholic princess. Rochester’s poem was a mock address that cited the many _advantages_ to the wedding: namely, the wholesale importation of fine Italian dildos to England, to the great joy of all the noble ladies in England (many of whom Rochester’s biting satire went on to _specifically reference_ , and thus mock). The men of England aren’t spared either - many of them are lampooned for their insecurity over their wives preferring the Italian _Signor_ over them -, and the history of 1670 is referenced, when Rochester and some of his cronies attempted to import a great many dildos into England, but the package containing them was seized by customs and publicly destroyed.  
>  The name _signor_ for dildos came about because of the - frequently - Italian nature of the finest dildos, and it was popularised by Rochester’s poem, which was a smash hit.
> 
> The Merry Monarch was Charles II, who was known for his particularly licentious court.
> 
> [Andalusian](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andalusian_horse): a type of Iberian horse, known for its elegance, beauty and prowess as a war horse. It was prized by all European nobility. More technically, the type of horse that England is thinking of is a [_Lusitano_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lusitano), extremely closely related to the Spanish Andalusian, but the Lusitano name had not yet come into use in 1735.
> 
>  _Wo_ : an earlier form of _whoa_


	4. iv

Perhaps sensing that England is not in the mood for something prolonged, or perhaps because he is simply too tired from his own orgasm to draw things out for too long, Portugal gets to work in giving England her much awaited release. The foreplay - and fucking Portugal - have taken her to the point where she can feel her _heartbeat_ throbbing low and hot in her abdomen, between her legs, and she is hopelessly wet against Portugal’s hand, her hips shifting restlessly into the firm cup of his palm. It feels _good_ because she is so aroused, Portugal’s fingers sliding against her sex, parting her lower lips and gathering slickness as they slowly slip back and forth, each returning glide smoother than the last.

“Faster,” England demands, and kisses Portugal when he obliges her. The huff of his laughter is a warm exhale against her mouth, and the folded joint of his thumb, suddenly rub hard against her clit, is a beautiful pressure to grind down against.

England moans, quiet but shameless - she has been holding back for so long, she is embarrassingly close just with this - and Portugal’s grip on her waist tightens. He bites playfully into their kisses, his teeth lightly dragging at the swell of her lower lip, and taking advantage of her distraction, much further south, two of his fingers crook, curve, to slide up _hard_ inside of England, carrying her forwards onto their thrust with each, now desperate, rock of her pelvis. She can feel each callus on them, each fingerprint, stroke against the sensitive skin inside of her, Portugal pressing hard against the fluttering clench of her walls when her body grips tight around the intrusion in pleasured surprise. Instinctively, her legs try to close - but the limbs are still spread either side of Portugal’s thigh, her knees pressing hard into firm warm muscle as something jumps in her belly pressed close against his chest.

Occupied with reaching her peak, England rests all her weight down and against Portugal, against his front and on her arms around his strong shoulders. After wiping _him_ down, it is her own sweat that makes her grip slide when she tries to grip his back, the scrabbling scrape of her nails an urgent juxtaposition to the steady grip of Portugal’s hands: the reassuring weight on her hip, and the solid, relentless _presence_ between her legs, his fingers and thumb stroking hard against sensitive, singing nerves and making the pleasure coil tighter and even more tightly inside her.

The last push is always the most desperate, England’s breath held hard and high and tight in her chest. Her body is full with it, a pinprick away from bursting, and she cannot even finish the _please_ she begins in the kiss she has smeared over Portugal’s mouth, hot and tight and fucking herself on and against Portugal’s hand just a little more, just a _little,_ until she finally, _finally,_ crests into orgasm with a rush of blessed, brief, and blinding bliss.

England comes back to herself still woozy, dizzy-headed from being drawn out and drawn up so high on her knees for so long. Portugal has taken back his hand from inside of her, so, between the steady thuds of her heart in her ears her legs finally give out on her, and she collapses down in an inelegant rush, England’s stomach moving away from Portugal’s front as her thighs are brought closer to the horizontal.

She is still straddling Portugal’s leg - and, though she is no doubt making a mess of him with her release, quite glad of it, of Portugal being so very _solid._ He is just the right height to let England drop her head into the lovely line between his shoulder and collarbone, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her breasts gradually slowing her own.

Stroking her back, nuzzling her hair… Portugal gives England long moments of perfect bonelessness before he kisses her temple, stirring them from their peace. “Sleep now, I think.”

England _mmm_ s agreement, but she waits for Portugal to move her, his hands untangling their limbs, snagging the discarded wash-cloth from the bowl on the floor to clean them both down again, and setting England down comfortably on her side atop the bedcover, the length of his body carefully positioned between hers and the door.

England waits for Portugal to settle beside her before nudging up against him, pleased at the arms that immediately wrap around her, tugging her close enough to have Portugal’s warmth pressed all down her front. Her eyes are already drooping as her nose bumps up against his chest, and by the time Portugal’s hand has found her hand, loosely clasped fingers falling between them, the lashes have dropped down entirely.

Portugal tucks his chin atop her head, his breath and a soft _boa noite_ lightly stirring the strands of England’s hair. She murmurs similar sounding noises back to him and, like that, falls asleep.

  
  


 

 

 

 

When England wakes, the room is almost completely dark and the empty space atop the bedcover beside her is a lot cooler than it ought to be. She stretches out into it sleepily even before her eyes have opened, unconsciously seeking out the warm body she had fallen asleep beside, the slow arch of her back and the slow, languorous feeling of her cheek shifting against her forearm as she wakes, her legs sliding against each other, feels wonderfully decadent.

A window must be open, for the air on her skin is cooler than it ought to be in a closed room, and she can faintly smell the flowers of the palace gardens on the same breeze that brings her the cries of night-birds, the ceaseless quiet chirping of crickets. All peaceful sounds to wake to - an oddity in a palace in the time after the first sleep of the night. Usually, in a royal residence, there is at least a dozen different affairs and/or an orgy going on at this hour (creating a racket with either loud sex or arguing), the fortunes of three countries being gambled away at card tables, and the clatter of bottles and plates as hundreds consume light meals. Here, England can just hear the garden, and the barely-there sound of a pen scratching at paper.

Still sleepy, she slowly rolls over on the bed so she can more comfortably face Portugal’s writing desk - and Portugal sitting there, as she suspected, a splash of colour picked out by candlelight that England can only view blurrily through her eyelashes. With the sole candle in the room left lit beside him, Portugal is busy writing, wearing only his wrapping gown, a deep burgundy Indian chintz patterned with blue and yellow, and nothing else. The poor clothing.

England stretches again, languidly pointing her toes on the bed and feeling the cover’s elaborate embroidery rub against her skin. The night air feels like woven wind draped over her; it would be far too easy to simply fall back asleep. “...Did I fuck you so poorly you found it necessary to abandon the bed in complaint?”

Portugal does not jump, but his chair _creaks_ very tellingly and his writing stops. “...Had I complaints, meu amor, I think you know me well enough by now to know you would have heard them.” He looks back at England, and the proximity to the candle picks out the way the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles when he smiles, crow’s feet England, were she close enough, would smooth out with her thumb. “My rear is… a little sensitive right now, but, I assure you, not with _complaint._ ”

“It would serve you right if it _were_ complaining.” Body heavy with slumber, England slowly pushes herself upright, unable to hold back a petulant little sigh. First sleep and second sleep be damned, she _could_ have just gone back to sleep. “The nice soft mattress and obliging naked woman are over here, and _you_ are very far away over _there._ ”

Portugal grins, his teeth glinting in the light. “The _obliging_ naked woman was fast asleep on the nice soft mattress when I woke up, and, you know, she always swats at me when she catches me watching her sleeping, as she wakes up? I think it embarrasses her.”

It _does_ embarrass England, and her cheeks warm at the mentioning of it even as she swings her feet off the bed to touch them to the floor. “I’ll embarrass your _face_ if you don’t stop being a brainless idiot,” she mutters.

Portugal’s grin only seems to grow brighter in response, watching as England sways her way across the room from the bed to the commode where she had left her things earlier. Sea legs on a motionless floor. “You say such sweet things when you have just woken up and are grumpy.”

England pulls on her fine shift, letting the material settle against her thighs before reaching up to finally undo her hair, messy as it now is. “Portugal, my dearest darling, I _can_ hand you your sensitive rear end.”

“Ah, but I can _buy_ yours.”

...Most likely, but Portugal looks entirely too pleased with his deduction for England to play sweet and agree with him, though the coquettish _what kind of master-thief do you think me, to make you pay for something that you already own?_ lingers interestingly on her tongue.

Instead, her fingers still busy pulling apart the stiffer strands of her hair, England meanders over to Portugal and his desk and his self-congratulating smile, draping herself like the sable night over his back and pressing an open-mouthed kiss against his throat. “Not for _all_ the gold left in Brazil.”

Portugal snorts at her, tipping his head to extend an invitation for more of those kisses on his mouth. “I,” England obliges him, nips his lips to part them for the slow swipe of her tongue, “would not buy you with _gold._ ”

“Of course not,” England agrees, and parts from their brief kiss to contemplate whether there is room for her on Portugal’s lap between his chest and the desk or not, and if depositing her person there will end up with them doing something scandalous on top of her fellow Nation’s letters. (She does not want to wash the wet ink off of her shift or skin.) “What then would you use to build your shiny new palaces with?”

Portugal considers it, setting down his pen. “...Fish, probably. Fish and spices and Indian cloth.”

England wrinkles her nose at him. “That sounds more like a _warehouse_ than a palace.” And a particularly odorous one at that. Although speaking of Indian cloth… England spreads her hands on Portugal’s shoulders, letting her thumbs press into the tensed muscles beneath the chintz. “You should change out of your gown before you stain it.”

“I should? And then what should I do?” The shadows move on Portugal’s face, shifting back and forth with the flickering of the candle’s flame in the breeze.

There is not, England decides, enough room on Portugal’s lap when he is sitting at his desk. “And then… let me brush your hair.” She reaches out to tug one of the littlest dark curls hanging by his ear, pinching it playfully between forefinger and thumb before twirling it around her knuckle. The rest of his hair is sex-and-bed-mussed tangles. “It looks almost as bad as mine is.”

It does not take a great deal to coax Portugal from work. He acquiesces - though not before stealing another swift kiss -, shrugging England and his wrapping gown off of his back. The gown joins the rest of their clothing scattered about the bedchamber’s floor (how one or both of them have not tripped over something yet is possibly a minor miracle; England will have to ask Portugal later which saint is the patron of _that_ particular blessing), and Portugal dons the clean shift England fetches for him, trailing her back to his bed with the stick of the lit candle in his hands, her hands full with her brush, comb, and ribbons.

Portugal sits cross-legged on the bed, leaning forward over his lap with his elbows on his knees so that England, curling up behind him with her own legs tucked beneath her, can easily see and reach the top of his head without having to uncomfortably stretch.

“When did you last properly comb your hair?” England asks him, since her comb has stuck in his curls barely a half-inch from where she had first inserted it in his mop near his crown.

“Uh,” says Portugal, which is telling enough really. “Recently?”

“So in the past year?”

Though she cannot see his face, England can see Portugal’s shoulders hunch rather sheepishly.

She smacks his side with her hand, a light hollow slap to his ribs without rancour. “Useless codshead.”

With the tangles so bad, England decides to work on easing them out from bottom to top. Portugal’s hair is thicker than hers, his tangles more vicious, so she rakes out the worst knots overall with her fingers before reapplying her wide-toothed comb, beginning near the tips, spread out in dark, woodsy brown in the almost-darkness over his shoulders, before slowly, slightly painfully, working her comb closer to the roots.

Portugal sits as obediently as any of England’s colonies do when she combs through their messy hair - which is to say, they _sit,_ and they let her comb their hair, but their patience lasts up until around the seventh serious tangle snagging between the teeth of the comb before they start to hiss and whine. Bermuda and Barbados are prone to wriggling whilst their hair is combed, complaining at how _long_ hair-brushing takes, sulking about every tug and snarl. America fusses most when his hair is washed, the way the cold (and, when it has been through his hair, _muddy_ ) water runs down the back of his neck. Gibraltar makes small sad noises in the back of his throat like a wounded puppy that has loyally come to its beloved but abusive master even though it knows it will receive another beating, even though _all_ England is frequently doing is combing out the dried-in banana and insect mush in his hair (lovingly placed there whilst still freshly-chewed and damp by his macaques and as impossible to shift later from his sweet cherubic curls as the damn monkeys are from their rock).

Portugal manages a magnificent mixture of all of those responses, fidgeting as subtly as a giant man-child can fidget with a shrewd woman close against his back (that is: not at _all_ ). It lengthens the time of England’s task - enough that she whaps him with the comb once or twice -, but, _eventually,_ when she draws the comb from root to tip, root to tip, all the way through Portugal’s hair, she meets no resistance save for the natural spring of his curls.

When England takes the comb away, Portugal reaches up to gather all his hair together in one hand, clearly intending to simply tie it all in a queue again and be done with it. England flicks his knuckles - and gets a surprised little hurt noise for doing so, Portugal looking back at her.

“You are not -” he sees her expression. “...You mean to do the _entire_ hair-toilette?”

England does, replacing the comb in her hand with a brush. “Why not, if it’s going to be another year before you look at so much as a comb again?”

“It was not a _year,_ ” Portugal complains, but loosens his grip on his hair, abandoning the queue and surrendering his head to England’s ministrations again - albeit with an exceedingly melodramatic _sigh,_ his shoulders slumping as he resigns himself to his fate. “It was not even _two weeks_.”

England snorts at him. “You’d think I was suggesting you muck out the stables, not get your hair brushed. Don’t you want to be pretty?”

Portugal tips his head back, his shoulders pressing into England’s chest. Upside-down, his nose arises like newfound land on the ocean’s horizon, two eyes watching balefully beneath. “I am already the _prettiest,_ ” he says.

Vain rooster. He is ridiculous enough that England smiles. “The prettiest _something,_ I’ll give you that.”

“And will you give me the something?” Portugal will pout even at a half-compliment.

“Guess,” says England, and laughs at Portugal’s sulking expression, dropping a kiss on his forehead. He can pick his own noun.

When Portugal straightens up again, England gets to work, starting on one side of Portugal’s head and slowly, rhythmically, working her way around to the other. Not fond of scraping her own skull raw, England’s brush has the softest bristles she could find, a dense pad that she gently works into the strands of Portugal’s hair near the roots, slowly pulling the brush down the hair shaft to work his natural oils through the whole of his hair.

England uses long, steady strokes of the brush - though it still feels a little peculiar, as Portugal is a great deal taller than most of the people ( _children_ ) whose hair she has brushed. Added to that, Portugal’s hair is much shorter than England’s, and her brush frequently finds the tips of his curls more quickly than her hand has been trained to expect from the many years brushing through her own hair. It is a slow, steady process - and without the snag of tangles to pull at his scalp, Portugal settles into it, the sound of his quiet, steady breathing a reassuring presence in the night alongside the faint crackle of their candle and the distant, ceaseless chirp of the crickets.

“Are you falling asleep?” England teases him - lightly, as it feels wrong to speak loudly in the sweet stillness of the night. She had lost count somewhere around forty-three strokes of her brush through Portugal’s hair, and the soothing, repetitive motions are making her eyes droop as well, leaning in closer to the warmth of her lover’s back.

“Não,” says Portugal, and then promptly yawns so widely his jaw cracks.

England laughs at him again, and knows Portugal hears her for the way he huffs out a mock-petulant breath. She errs on the side of caution - for if Portugal falls asleep he will likely topple into his own lap and wake up with an awful crick in his neck, or somehow fall backwards and squash some part or all of her -, setting aside the brush at last and taking up the black hair ribbon that is so fashionable for men these days.

Balling the ribbon up in her palm, England gathers and divides Portugal’s hair into three sections, braiding it loosely enough from his nape that it will not pull as he sleeps. The ribbon of course, weaves into the hair and ties the plait up neatly at the bottom, a quick little task to finish a long one.

“There,” says England, smoothing her hands out over the strong curves of Portugal’s shoulder-blades. “You are all set, my love, to break a thousand hearts.”

“...I thought that saying had something to do with ships?”

“I’m not getting you a thousand ships.”

“But you will let me break a thousand hearts?” Amused, Portugal twists himself around, a slither-shuffle on the bed. “You have very telling priorities, querida.”

“You make me selfish,” England says, her tone flippant and her shoulders rising and dropping in what she hopes is an insouciant shrug. “There are very few hearts I care for. Now _ships -_ ”

Portugal tucks his fingers under her chin, tilting her eyes to meet his. “Tell me about these hearts.”

England flusters, shivering where they touch. “You do realise it’s just an idiom -”

“There is no _just_ with the things you say, and with the things you do not say.” Portugal smile edges back onto his face again, reassuring England, a gentle, hopeful little thing. “I listen to you.”

England touches his hand under her chin, easing it open from the palm so she can raise it to her lips to kiss, dropping her gaze from Portugal’s. “And I am grateful for it, and offer my condolences to your eardrums.”

They negotiate the bed. Portugal insists - in some kind of revenge - on returning England’s earlier courtesy by doing her hair for her, and takes her comb, brush and ribbon away from her before she can think of an adequately polite way to dissuade him. Whilst England enjoys other people doing her hair for her, and whilst Portugal has brushed her hair for her before over the many years they have shared together, a winding spool of her hair around his fingers leading him to distraction (or so he had claimed) from his duties and them both to hours trading slow, languid kisses in bedrooms, meadows, gardens...

Despite all that, Portugal is _terrible_ when it comes to _combing_ through hair, finding every snag and tangle (and probably creating more than a few) and _yanking_ on them with all the grace and subtlety of a farm’s new apprentice first being taught to card the burrs out of shorn sheep’s wool.

England winces when Portugal finds another stubborn clump of hair to defy the teeth of the (now weaponised, in his hands) comb. The starch her lady’s maid had combed into her hair before they had set off in their carriage for Mafra had done a superb job in removing the greasy look of England’s hair after the pomade had been worked into it, and keeping England’s coiffure beautifully styled all day despite her many activities, but _now_ it sticks to the strands of her hair and makes every little tangle, with Portugal’s somewhat heavy-handed approach to the female _toilette,_ a Gordian Knot.

“How do you manage to have so many young girls for colonies and _still_ be so terrible at this?”

Portugal huffs at the question, blowing a wisp of England’s hair over her shoulder to tickle her nose. “They do their own hair, or their women do.”

“Did they learn just to stop you manhandling them?” England reaches up to lay her hand flat against the back of her head, trapping the section of hair Portugal is busy tugging at near the top, to relieve some of the pressure pulling at her roots. Her hair is too fine for this. “You know, I can remember when you brushing my hair used to be _romantic._ ”

Portugal makes a wounded noise (though he does noticeably _gentle_ his next tug, easing away a knot of hair and starch as he pulls the comb free of England’s hair). “You had less tangles!”

“So if I want you to romantically brush my hair, I have to comb and brush my hair _before_ I ask you?”

“ _No,_ ” Portugal grumbles, and drops the comb altogether to sulkily wrap his arms around England’s waist from behind. He buries his _face_ in the disarray of England’s hair, sighing heavily enough overhead that all the shortest strands of her hair flop forwards with the gust of his breath and dangle irritatingly in her eyes.

“... _Portugal._ ” England tries to wiggle out of Portugal’s lock - or at least change the angle of his head; he is putting a lot of pressure on her neck -, but the muscles in Portugal’s arms tense up stubbornly, holding her in place. When England relaxes again, accepting her fate with a quieter sigh of her own, Portugal relaxes with her - and (thankfully) shifts his head, nuzzling his nose into England’s hair (and putting even _more_ of it in her face).

Somewhat balefully, England is reminded of a cat rubbing its face all over someone to cover them in its scent.

Portugal does nothing to remove himself from the association, kissing the upper curve of England’s ear - startling her enough she shies into his chest behind her - and going straight back to nuzzling her temples. “You smell good.”

The faintest flush of heat creeps down England’s neck again. “...The hair powder is mixed with orange flower water, and my pomade is scented with the oil of lemons and cloves.”

“And you still use elderflowers and milk for sunburn, yes?” England can feel Portugal’s lips turn up into a smile against her scalp, amusement easing away his petulance at having his hair-combing skills maligned. “I am making love to a sweet dessert.”

England elbows him - but clearly not hard enough, as Portugal is already laughing at her and his own joke, the warm jump of his laughter echoing through his chest into hers where he is pressed along England’s back. She tilts her head back, quite ready to fondly scold, and instead finds herself thoroughly distracted by Portugal kissing her, the silly, lovely man attempting to find her mouth with his at a peculiar angle and missing more often than not.

One wildly off-mark kiss finds the side of England’s nose. “This isn’t going to work…” she informs Portugal, but the vibrations of Portugal’s laughter are still bubbling inside her ribcage, her own smile spreading wider, and Portugal just to spite her kisses the exact same spot again on purpose with a defiantly exaggerated _smooch_. “You -”

An _obscenely_ ridiculous smooch - complete with loud and silly puckering noise - is planted on the bow of England’s upper lip.

“You!” she cries again, laughing and scandalised, and pushes at Portugal’s arms until she can turn and scramble her way half into his lap, swatting at his hands when he tries to distract her further by dancing his fingers ticklishly over her ribs, turning her face aside so Portugal’s ongoing attempts at gross, wet, and purely theatrical kisses continue to miss her mouth and land instead on her cheeks, nose and chin. “How dare you?”

“Ao homem amado a fortuna lhe dá a mão,” Portugal quite seriously declares, and ducks past the hand England is trying to cover his mouth with to catch her under the jaw with another open-mouthed kiss. He is still grinning, the fool; England can feel the curve of it, his teeth.

 _Fortune gives her hand to the beloved man_ \- and England gives Portugal _both_ her hands, grabbing his stupid face between them whilst he is still retreating, triumphant, from his last kiss and darting forwards to kiss him hard, herself, on his ridiculous mouth.

 _“Idiot,_ ” she murmurs against his lips, an irrepressibly fond secret caught between her hands and them.

 _“Querida,_ ” Portugal croons back at her, and laughs even when England bites at his grin, playfully nudging up against her to try and return the favour with her lip caught between the rows of his teeth.

They trade nips rather than kisses - until the nips _become_ kisses, England’s low hum of pleasure thrumming through her body like a content vibrato as their pace slows, lingering, and Portugal’s fingers spread out slowly on her back. The candlelight swims like foxfire, fireflies and faerie-light through her eyelashes as she lets her eyes drift closed, England enjoying the ease of Portugal’s mouth over hers, the full warmth of his lips and soft wet of his tongue, and the lullaby beat of his heart under her palms, England’s fingers sliding slowly up over Portugal’s collarbone, around his neck, until her breasts are pushing up against his chest each time they breathe. Their skin rubs, tender, beneath the delicate cotton of their shifts.

“...If this -” Portugal has to pause himself and clear his throat, his voice back to its earlier thickness that has England thoughtlessly, instinctively, pressing herself against more firmly against Portugal’s body. _Speak low,_ her sweet William had written once, _if you speak of love._ “If this is meant to convince me that you are _not_ a delicious sweet dessert -”

 _“Shhhh,_ ” England murmurs, her own voice not much better, and curls her fingers around Portugal’s nape to coax his mouth down and back against hers, stealing the next damp shivering exhale of his breath. “Tease me later.”

“Is that a _promise -_ ”

Minutes… hours… kisses later, when they part, finally, all the time in the world could have passed or no time at all. It is still night; the candle is still burning, and the crickets are still chirping in the gardens. England’s cheeks feel pink with warmth and smiling, a quiet, happy glow feeling as though it lights her from within even as she busies herself with combing through her own hair, making quick work of snarls that turn obedient under her hand.

Portugal is not inept with a brush - and, after earlier, feels he has something to prove - so England gives her brush to him, sitting quietly as he slowly brushes her hair to a silky shine. One hundred strokes, give or take five or ten either side, for England is dozing off when Portugal eventually takes the brush from her hair, gathering and dividing her hair into a plait kin to his, though hers hangs to her lower back by the time Portugal reaches for the ribbon to tie it off.

“Are you falling asleep?” Portugal asks when England sways back against him, the braid tied securely, an amused echo of England’s earlier question.

“Yes,” says England simply, and lets herself go lax against her friend and lover behind her, turning her cheek into the solid security of Portugal’s chest. Nap or not, first sleep or not, travelling and the heat have used up her energy for the day.

Portugal reaches for the covers of the bed, rucking up the layers of embroidered blue satin and cotton sheets like so much frothing sea-foam and revealing the secrets of the not-so-sandy seabed below it.

Grateful, England crawls between the sheets, reaching for one of the less embroidered pillows and wrapping her arms around it. “Read me something.”

“You want a bedtime story?” Still sitting on the wrong side of the covers, Portugal idly walks his fingers down the length of England’s legs as she slides them underneath the layers of bed-linen by his knee.

“...Poetry,” England decides, as it is a quiet thing she knows fascinates both of them. And then: “Nothing French.”

Portugal obliges her, rising from the bed to return to his desk for a few moments. To England’s pleasure, what he brings back with him is not a printed book, something in English or Latin, Castilian or - distressingly rare for his own writers now - Portuguese, but one of his own hand-written journals, one of those battered things he takes with him on his absent wanderings near and far.

Portugal’s journals are a mess of his thoughts: at times, he uses them to record his daily experiences and note down the change in trade prices in various ports and international markets since his last visit, and on other pages gives up entirely on detailed narratives of his day to draw charts of the stars over the ocean or truly terrible sketches of dolphins, dugongs and rhinoceroses. Initially unable to catch her one of the damn birds to bring her one as a present, or even to get one to sit still long enough to draw properly, Portugal had once used his journals to keep flat the brightly-coloured feathers of parrots from the New World, bringing England some of the colour of the birds across the ocean pressed between pages of his own words.

These days, Portugal’s journals are a much a muddle as they have always been. To-do lists and five minute miniature dictionaries of new languages, the smudged fingerprints of small grabbing colonies, doodles of fish and the elegant calligraphy of Macau’s paper lanterns. Pieces of prayers, literature and poetry copied out in part or in whole, in a tongue Portugal already knows or one he wishes to translate himself. Portuguese and Galician. Latin and Castilian. English and French, and enough mixed versions of Dutch to both charm Belgium and tell her eldest brother to go fuck himself. Japanese, Vietnamese, Cantonese and Malay; Gujarati, Marathi, Canarim and Brámana de Goa - the languages of tea and silk, porcelain, cotton and expensive spices. Ladino, very occasionally. Arabic, even less.

“Words from far away?” England asks, as Portugal moves the candle to shine clearer light onto the pillows, sliding into the bed beside her.

Even sitting upright, Portugal creates a deeper hollow in the mattress, England slipping into it, flush against Portugal’s side when he wraps one arm around her. She lays her head on Portugal’s chest, feeling her braid slip over her shoulder-blades, and props her pillow on Portugal’s stomach.

“I think, first, closer to home,” he says, and his journal opens with the soft sound of paper, pages a little loose in their bindings from love, use and abuse. “... _In men we various Ruling Passions find;/ In women two almost divide the kind;/ Those only fix’d, they first or last obey -_ ”

England has the feeling she knows this one.

_“The love of Pleasure, and the love of Sway.”_

Yes. Alexander Pope might be English, but his Nation - she who is currently growing less sleepy by the second - would like a word or two with him about his views on the natures of people. _Women_ in particular.

“Portugal,” England asks mildly, “darling, am I going to have to hit you?”

England _is_ going to have to; above her head, Portugal huffs a laugh - he knows _exactly_ what he is reading. “ _That Nature gives; and where the lesson taught/ Is but to please, can Pleasure seem a fault?/ Experience this:_ ” Portugal can _experience_ England thumping her fist down on the pillow at his middle. Hopefully it will echo through his belly, the teasing _wretch,_ “ _by man’s oppression curst -_ ”

“I’m feeling some of that curse _right now._ ”

“Minha _pobrezinha._ ” Portugal drops a kiss atop her head, sounding close enough to laughter his chest rumbles with it already under England’s ear. And _continues: “They seek the second not to lose the first.”_

England takes hold of her pillow again and lifts her head, _daring_ Portugal and his smile to keep reading.

He does, deliberately emphasising parts of the lines to spite her. _“Men some to bus’ness, some to pleasure take;/ But_ ev’ry _woman is at heart a_ rake -”

England proceeds to use her pillow to _rakishly_ beat Portugal about the head.

_Men some to quiet, some to public strife;_

_But ev’ry lady would be queen for life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some possibly unfamiliar terms:  
>  _First sleep and second sleep_ : rather than the one block of (recommended) 8 hours sleep that is now the norm, people before the Victorian period used to sleep in segments throughout the night, with the space between the first and second sleep being used for anything from prayer/study to sex/socialisation. More info [here](http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-16964783) and [here](http://www.medievalists.net/2016/01/03/how-did-people-sleep-in-the-middle-ages/?utm_content=buffer22279&utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter.com&utm_campaign=buffer).  
>  _Codshead_ : also written _cods head/cod’s head_ , meaning ‘idiot’/‘fool’. I couldn’t resist Portugal and a fish joke.  
>  _Queue_ : in the sense used here, means _ponytail_ (a word not developed until the 20th century), coming from the French for _tail_. Often, the hair was gathered into a silk bag rather than allowed to hang freely.  
>  _Make love_ : from the 1570s sense of _pay amorous attention to_ ; not used as a euphemism for sex until around 1950
> 
> Inspiration for [Portugal’s wrapping gown](http://www.vandaimages.com/results.asp?image=2006AT8214-01&itemw=4&itemf=0001&itemstep=1&itemx=6). Indoors clothing, a wrapping gown was supposed to be worn over a shift and breeches (to stop sweat staining the expensive fabric). It's - partially - why England takes Portugal out of his so quickly.
> 
> England and Portugal’s technique for tending each other’s hair only works because their hair is not in a modern state - 100 strokes to your hair every morning and night is actually incredibly _bad_ for your hair if you wash your hair regularly and use a synthetic brush, but the way England maintains her hair brushes the oils through it and keeps it strong/clean. (Partially why she insists on Portugal getting his hair brushed - to clean it!) [More info](https://thepragmaticcostumer.wordpress.com/2014/09/17/the-myth-of-a-myth-brushing-your-hair-100-times/).
> 
> Unlike French women, British women didn’t powder their hair to the fashionable whiteness we always see in period films until the 1770s. Unfortunately, finding out the haircare regimen of women in the first half of the 18th century is a _huge pain_ , as people tend to care more about the huge styles that came along later, so I took some liberties.  
> Pomade works as a styling aid/nice-smelling hair-conditioner - but it does give the hair a greasy texture, so some powdering before styling would dry that out. (The main component of powder in the 18th century would be _starch_ , which is used even now in dry shampoo.) After styling, women who powdered their hair would apply even _more_ powder with hand bellows - a step I skipped for England, who I’ve taken to mean _not powdering her hair_ to mean _does not use powder to deliberately artificially change the colour of her hair_. [More info](http://madameisistoilette.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/18th-century-hairstyling.html).  
>  The most popular hairstyles around this period were the _simple coiffure_ \- a high bun at the back of the head, with (optional) curls/waves around the face - and the _Dutch coiffure_ \- the high bun replaced with ringlets hanging to the nape. Both styles could feature twisted locks of hair hanging below/artfully laid over the shoulders.
> 
>  _‘Speak low if you speak of love’_ \- Shakespeare, from _Much Ado About Nothing_
> 
> As the Portuguese were the first Europeans (after the Age of Exploration) to trade/interact with many Asian peoples, Portuguese was often the language that was used for the first dictionaries translating between ‘new’ (at least, new to Europe) languages and European ones. Japanese and Vietnamese are particular examples of this - but most of the other languages mentioned in this chapter are either European, or some of the languages spoken in (former) Portuguese colonies.  
> Gujarati, Marathi, Canarim and Brámana de Goa are all Indo-Aryan languages. The latter two are both names that were used by the Portuguese for the language known as Konkani. ( _Lingua Canarim_ , and _Lingua Brahmana. Lingua Concanim_ was used later.) European authors distinguished two forms of Konkani being used in Goa: the common, plebian, form ( _Canarim_ ), and the more regular form that was used by the educated classes ( _Lingua Canarim Brámana_ , or simply _Brámana de Goa_ ). The latter form was the preferred choice of Europeans, and also of other castes, for writing and religious purposes.  
> Ladino, or Judeo-Spanish, is a romance language particular to the Sephardic Jews who once lived in Spain/Portugal.
> 
> The poem Portugal is teasing England with at the end is an excerpt from Alexander Pope’s [_Of the Characters of Women_](http://www.bartleby.com/203/144.html), published in 1735.


	5. v

England stirs later than she usually would, drifting into wakefulness with the sleepy complacency of the well-rested on a sunny autumnal morning. Somehow, during the night, she has drawn a pillow into her arms and turned herself towards the open window, and the breeze is a very pleasant thing on her face - a cooling sensation counterpoint to the much  _ warmer _ thing throwing off a country’s worth of heat at her back. Portugal is nuzzled up so close against England’s back he almost feels like an extension of her spine, the curve of his pelvis cupping her rear, his slow, even breaths kissing her shoulder - and his arm, doing its usual when they sleep like this, slung possessively warm and heavy across England’s body and pushed up so firmly under her breasts that if Portugal ever, for some horrific reason, ceased to be a Nation, he could immediately seek gainful employment by operating in the place of ladies’ supportive undergarments.

...It actually makes a change that the hand  _ attached  _ to the questing arm is not groping one of England’s breasts whilst it is has ventured in that direction, but England supposes that the pillow she has somehow ended up cuddling might have squashed the hopeful limb out of the way.

England has no desire to get up. She is quite comfortable -  _ more  _ than comfortable - exactly where she is, and has no work to do or plans for the day. Save England’s maids, who already know what kind of company their mistress is keeping, neither England nor Portugal have anyone they are expected to meet that day, and, in a palace Mafra’s size, there are more than enough servants and slaves to do the household’s chores. And Portugal is still sleeping.

There is absolutely no reason for England to need to get up. So, for once, England makes the deliberate conscious decision that she is  _ not  _ getting up, not yet, and turns her back on her pillow and the window and the sunshine, shooing away the reminders of the morning to embrace sleep again instead. Her movement jostles Portugal, of course - he was pressed too close to her for it  _ not  _ to -, but the slumberous lump barely stirs when England curls into his chest, breaking off from quiet snores to make grumbling puppy noises instead.

Portugal’s nose has scrunched up with its owner’s discontent. England laughs at it quietly and at Portugal, tipping her head up to kiss some of the creases - but it just scrunches up  _ further  _ at that, Portugal grumbling a very sleep-thick  _ não, estou farto de tomates  _ before he swipes, blindly, for the back of England’s head, and pulls her head down under his chin. With her face suddenly pushed into Portugal’s shoulder, England blinks in surprise, and then has to bite down hard on her lip to stop the laughter bubbling out of her too loudly, twisting her fingers in the front of Portugal’s shift and pressing her smiling mouth hard against her knuckles and his chest.

Despite having much more active bedpartners than England  (both siblings and young colonies kick  _ hard _ ), and despite still being fast asleep, Portugal seems vexed by England’s quivering, his body unconsciously trying to make hers settle down by  _ forcing  _ it there. Portugal’s arm, the one with the hand that is so fond of investigating England’s bosom at every available opportunity attached to it, stays heavy over her hip, fingers mimicking England’s grip in front by clutching at the  _ back  _ of her shift, pulling up the fabric so much it barely covers her rear under the sheets. The other hand stays warm, cupped around the back of England’s skull, and, as their legs slot together, finding a new position for comfortable sleep, Portugal’s thigh settles proprietorially atop England’s, push-pulling her body up so close against Portugal’s that his breathing echoes in her ribs, steady as the tide, a gentle lullaby to coax away the judders of laughter still shaking her and melt down into easy sleep.

  
  
  
  


The second time England wakes, it is  _ much  _ later in the morning. It  _ is  _ still morning, for when she slowly blinks the sleep from her eyes, the sun is still directly in the room, but the angle of its rays and the temperature of the air have both shifted - and, in the latter case, risen - dramatically.

Pressed up so closely against Portugal in such warmth treads a very fine line between heaven and purgatory. England is not too hot, exactly, but she has the definite sense she is beginning to  _ stick  _ to things: pillow, sheets, shift, and Portugal. She grimaces, arching her back a little to try and get away from the heat of Portugal’s palm pressing between her shoulder-blades - his hand is causing her shift to cling especially to her clammy skin there -, but her pyrrhic victory in doing so only ends up bringing her even closer into Portugal’s chest, his body steadily burning like the white limestone cliffs of Algarve under the sun approaching noon.

That  _ is  _ too warm.

England pulls away again, intending to solve the dilemma by simply getting up. She has had her morning’s worth of indulgence already; it is about time both she and Portugal rise from bed and do something productive with the day.

Unfortunately, a sleeping Portugal is rarely acquiescent to any plans that involve disturbing his rest. Both his arms and his legs are wrapped like a heavy, affectionate cage around England, and trying to move  _ any  _ of his limbs just makes him tighten his grip on England’s person, as clingy as any of England’s hunting hounds with their favourite chew-toy (or her newest gloves or slippers). He huffs a disgruntled breath into England’s hair when she shoves at him, disturbed snores very much giving the effect of a pig hunting for truffles, his nose determinedly rootling into England’s hair even as she groans at him.

“Portugal.” If he settles to the point of snuggling her again, past experience has shown that England is going to have to all but  _ claw  _ her way out of her friend’s determined grasp. She is too slight to  _ push  _ him off her, though she can keep moving in the hope she might gently jostle him awake. “Portugal, darling. Sweetheart.” 

Portugal grumbles something nonsensical again, his chin tucking downwards towards his chest when England moves her head away from his determined nuzzling. He is… distressed at that, his fingers flexing in their hold on England’s shift, pulling up the material even  _ more. _

“Light of my life, _ joy _ of my existence.” England reaches up to pat her idiot on his cheek, watching his nose wrinkle up in disgust once more. “Time to get up.”

Portugal finally responds after a great deal more patting (alright, it quickly turned into  _ poking _ ), his snoring stopping abruptly and his eyelashes fluttering, slowly, slowly, until he eventually cracks open his eyes, looking bleary and pouty and disgruntled with the world.

“There you are.” England smiles at him, gentling her palm on his cheek and tucking back Portugal’s errant curls. He pushes his face into the cup of her hand with thoughtless affection, a sleepy snuffle escaping him before his golden gaze finally begins to focus on England. “Come on -”

Portugal smiles at her like the dawn is breaking, slow and sleepy and heartstoppingly sweet. England’s words peter away in the face of it, floating off in their own cloudy unimportance, and. And it seems perfectly right, just then, for Portugal to nuzzle drowsily down against her, his lips and the faintest scratch of his morning stubble tickling her forehead, her nose, before, warm and clumsy, his mouth finds England’s.

The bump of his lips parts England’s lips, her exhaled breath a little shivering, and Portugal’s kiss is as slow and lazy as the sunshine, the space behind England’s eyes coloured with golden light when she lets her eyes drift shut. Portugal rolls them, nudging England over onto her back, his thigh spreading her legs and his body half-covering hers, bracketing her between mattress and body and limbs and thick honey kiss. England feels like she is melting under the weight of him, stroking Portugal’s cheek, jaw, his throat rising and falling with his breathing and his pulse still so sleepy and slow under her hand.

Portugal’s smile only grows at her petting, a thing of sensation against her skin, tucking his mouth behind her ear, down the sleep-warm sensitive skin of her own throat to… to less  _ kiss  _ her there, but drag his mouth against her pulse. His head heavy on her shoulder, he makes a noise deep in his chest that England can only describe as a rumbling  _ purr,  _ so deep she feels it in her blood rather than hearing it with her ears, his lips pressed to her bared collarbone when England turns her head enough to kiss the smoothness of his brow, stroking an open palm down what she can reach of Portugal’s back.

They lie like that for a little while, content to simply hold each other and greet the morning with a peaceful embrace - before England really  _ does  _ begin to feel a little too warm with Portugal sprawled out atop of her, no longer being distracted from the discomfort by kisses.

She kisses Portugal’s forehead again, a little lovestruck by the way he snuggles into her further in response. “Love, we really need to be getting up now.”

Portugal does not respond.

England frowns at him, shifting the angle of her head to study the sooty colour of Portugal’s eyelashes laid low on his cheek. “Portugal?”

Still no response.

Even were he  _ not  _ half-covering England with the significant weight of his body, Portugal’s arms are wrapped around England, his hips pinning her hips - and his breathing is as slow as his pulse had been, as slow as his pulse  _ is, _ slow and steady and  _ asleep. _

...The useless  _ lump  _ has  _ fallen asleep on her. _

England’s smitten mood evaporates, and she reaches up and around to  _ whap  _ her inconsiderate  _ ass  _ of a friend and lover with a snapped, “Por-tu- _ gal!”  _ punctuating each syllable with a smack to the back of his dumb thick head.

Portugal’s response is to simply snort something unintelligible into England’s collarbone and then proceed to  _ snore. _

“Port, as God as my witness, I am going to chop your fat lazy arse into a  _ thousand _ tiny, little, bloody pieces and feed it to  _ your own damn chickens. _ ”

If anything, Portugal’s snores seem to get  _ louder. _

England smacks him sharply again, hot and bothered and deeply unimpressed, and  _ fumes  _ at the ceiling.

The ceiling, a rather plain affair accounting for the more French baroque styles England is begrudgingly more accustomed to (a patterned canopy would be infinitely more riveting), does not yield any answers as to how to wake the fat steer trapping England in bed after coaxing, kisses, slapping and death-threats have been tried and failed. England’s attempts to  _ shove  _ at Portugal’s chest when there is no room between their bodies to grant her any leverage - a much needed thing when his  _ weight  _ is already working so much against her - also meet failure, as does her frankly exhausting attempt to  _ wiggle  _ out from under Portugal, the sole of her one unpinned leg sliding hopelessly in the tangled sheets of the bed, her upper body too caged by Portugal’s arms.

Tired, overheated and quite thoroughly  _ piqued,  _ England gives up, sinking deeper into the crater her body is making in the mattress, pushed down into cotton and straw and feathers like a flower pressed against paper until flat. There is, apparently (as she has always really known), no way of moving Portugal unless Portugal wishes to be moved, and trying to fight the inevitable simply has her even  _ hotter  _ than she had been when she first woke up. Her body is now coated with a fine sheen of sweat, the moisture moulding her shift and the sheets to her limbs like a second clinging skin, a cocoon, material rubbing irritatingly between her torso and Portugal’s.

Seeing no alternative (unless she wishes to remain awake, bored and cross with  _ everything _ ), England closes her eyes again,  _ willing  _ herself to try and ignore the heat - and her state of thorough annoyed wakefulness - and go back to sleep. If she has to suffer a Portuguese autumn noon pinned to a bed by a hot body, without something to drink,  _ awake,  _ she is going to die trying (and hopefully, if there are any vengeful angels hovering and mindful to her plight, succeeding) to kill Portugal.

  
  
  
  


The  _ third  _ time England wakes (how she even fell asleep again is partially the result of stern training of her own body, and partially a miracle), she is  _ a _ woken, something niggling her up from the dark depths of slumber between the irritating thuds of what she slowly becomes aware is a headache. There is- her body feels  _ good,  _ her fingers twisting up in cloth and her hips shifting restlessly on the sheets. Precise thoughts are still too complicated so England’s slowly waking dreams are nameless: cloudy feelings, sensation, thick and drugged and soft and slick and warmth and  _ wet,  _ the drag and glide of cloth and skin and tongue. The pulse of her headache, her heartbeat, a bass line under it all, the dark shadows to rise from.

England eases into consciousness with a soft moan, mid-stretch, her shoulder-blades pushing her belly and breasts up into the day. Her spine clicks - horse-shoes on cobblestones, the clink of coins in warehouses and shops and banks, a ship creaking in the wind -, realigning itself after remaining in one position for a long time, and the warmth of the air is almost as warm as the heat pressed up all along England’s side, greedy fingers of it spreading over to stroke her ribs, cup her breasts, plying between England’s legs with a familiarity that already has another quiet moan scraping its way up from low in her throat. Pleasure wars with annoyance - and pleasure, in some confusion, temporarily wins out, its champion a wet warmth dragging distractingly down England’s sternum.

The slick heat rises up the swell of one breast, circling her areola as slowly as the movement of the spheres. England’s brow creases, her thoughts still too scattered out of place to fully rouse her, but her nipple hardens under the attentions bestowed on it,  _ aching  _ into the gentle suction now being applied to it, the filthy tongue being laved over its -

...Tongue?

Tongue.

Mouth.

Head.

Person.

_ Portugal. _

England’s eyes flare open to a  _ blare  _ of daylight her brain still is not quite prepared to deal with, her headache  _ thudding  _ an angry greeting in her skull. She hisses, instinctively writhing away from it - only to find herself tangled up in another person’s limbs and her own dratted clothing. She is unable to even twist her body away for the hand spreading her her legs, very firmly cupping her pelvis, and the  _ head  _ quite heavy on her bare bosom, her shift rucked up so far in her sleep (England  _ strongly  _ suspects it may have had some help) it covers only her arms and her collarbone.

“Boa tarde,” says the  _ thing  _ making itself quite sweetly at home in the valley between England’s breasts, Portugal just  _ dumping  _ a great deal more of his weight on top of her body the moment he has confirmation she is awake. (Does he prefer to smother her whilst she is conscious?!)

Eyes watering - and half-closed again so she can  _ see -  _ England squints at him in what she hopes is a very impressive glare. Portugal does not appear to notice. With her eyesight blurry, Portugal, to England, is simply a mass of gold and brown and endless tan skin, which. Which means  _ he  _ has completely stripped off again, his shift God knows where, busying himself with decorating England’s body from the abused hemline of her nightwear to the undersides of her breasts with little wet kisses, damp spots to shiver over when he blows over them lightly on his return trip.

“...What,” England has to cough at the crack in her voice, licking her lips before she can try again. Portugal’s bed-mussed braid is tickling her side, swinging over his shoulder whilst he torments her. Has he removed the covering sheets as well? England cannot see them. “The  _ hell  _ do you think you’re doing?”

“Waking you up very nicely?” Portugal is bloody  _ nuzzling  _ her again, eager as a puppy, and England would find his smile and him endearing if only she did not have the urge to hurt him. His voice turns teasing, skimming across England’s skin like another one of his shower of kisses. “Unless you wish to sleep the day away?”

Unfortunately for Portugal, England is not in the mood to be teased. Her headache spikes unpleasantly, and her lips pull back in a grimacing  _ snarl. _ “I tried to wake you up  _ hours  _ ago!”

“You did?” Portugal lifts his head, and his look of genuine puzzlement just makes England even  _ more  _ annoyed with him.  _ Some  _ of them had not had the luxury of a solid, comfortable sleep. “I do not remember.”

“No, because you pinned me and then  _ fell asleep again!” _

Finally, Portugal takes note of her snarl. “...Oh.”

“Yes,  _ oh!” _

“...You are very comfortable?”

England fails to take the weak compliment, reaching out to shove-slap at Portugal’s shoulders. “Get  _ off. _ ”

Portugal does as he is told, taking away his head and his mouth and his hands and the rest of his nuisance self to kneel on the bed beside England, looking for all the world like a scolded pet. Naked, he is as glorious in the daylight as he was by candlelight, the shadow-and-satin creature from dark and dirty fantasies emerging from the night’s oceans and revealing something much more flawed, more sweetly simple. There is sunlight on the rough patches and uneven tan lines on Portugal’s skin, the rumpled hair, hairy legs, and wet patch at the corner of his lips from his own saliva. He is halfway to hardness already, patterned with sex-bruises and the pale streaks of dried come on his belly and thighs from being too impatient to suffer a thorough wash. More human.

Despite how hideously attractive the lobcock is, England does not miss him atop her in the slightest. For the first time in so many hours, she feels like she can  _ breathe,  _ nothing pressing down on her chest save air - which, whilst warm, feels cool since it has a lower temperature than Portugal’s hotter body. Because of the difference, England can feel every inch of her where Portugal had been - and feel herself blushing hotly as a replacement, for when her mind finally sorts itself out from sleepiness, indignation and confusion, England finally notes just how  _ wet  _ she is between her legs, a little frisson of excitement stirring beneath her skin when she instinctively reaches down to cover herself in embarrassment.

Just  _ how  _ long had Portugal been petting her before she had woken up again?! England credits herself with being a light sleeper, since she always rouses in the presence of those she does not trust. Portugal, however, is too dear and too familiar to her by now; England’s sleeping mind has long since failed to register him as a threat to her, and so  _ now  _ he can apparently have his merry way with her for some time before she comes to.

“You’re lucky I’m too worn out to kick you,” England grumbles, unable to even summon up the energy to prop herself up on one elbow and scowl at Portugal. This damnable  _ heat _ .

“Not happy?” asks Portugal. He already knows the answer.

“ _ Not happy, _ ” England confirms, sounding peeved enough she cannot even blame Portugal for the responding faint quirk of his mouth, an almost-smile. He earns a minute portion of her favour back by reaching out with one hand to her again. When England does not snap at it - or him - he settles it lightly on her cheek, brushing back escaping wisps of her hair and offering a little affectionate comfort.

England lets her eyes drift shut again, enjoying the gentleness.

“I could make you feel better?” Portugal offers, a little sweetly coaxing but mostly hopeful.

England has not forgotten his half-hard cock. “You mean like you did waking me up?” she drones, not bothering to open her eyes. There is a wonderful cool patch that she has just found on her pillow, and does not wish to abandon it for the world. 

“...Something like that,” says Portugal, which frankly just sounds suspicious.

Then again, Portugal is a somewhat suspicious individual.

“I have a headache,” England informs him.

“It will help?”

England very much doubts that. But Portugal has found a lovely spot under the curve of her jaw with his thumb, rubbing so very pleasantly there she almost feels like nudging up against his hand. “...Just don’t squash me.”

She needs something to wake her up anyway.

Portugal unfolds himself, stretching out on his side beside England on the bed. His head steals away the rest of the room on her pillow, and England opens her eyes to the softness of his expression looking at her, the dopey fondness written there hooking behind her heart.

“Looking for something?” England asks Portugal a little tartly, embarrassed  _ for  _ him.

Portugal only smiles at her, wiggling a little closer on the pillow so he can give her a kiss. Their noses bump, Portugal’s mouth against England’s still a very warm thing this m- this _whenever-it-is,_ and his eyes crinkling up at the corners like they do when he is happy. “Already found it.”

_ Flirt.  _ England goes to push down her shift to avoid thinking about how she is  _ already  _ forgiving Portugal for being a lazy, lecherous goat, the bunched-up material blocking some of her sight. She would probably be more comfortable removing her shift entirely, but that currently involves too much movement. “Another land you stumbled across by lucky accident…?”

Portugal hums - “This blessing found  _ me, _ ” and pushes England’s shift back up again, his hand cupping one of her breasts and beginning to massage it.

“ _ Ass, _ ” England calls him, but just gets another kiss for the effort.

Portugal wiggles some more - down this time, down England’s body. England shifts a little more onto her side to look at him, shivering a little as his mouth latches back onto her nipple, an incredible heat. He will need to shave before he goes out in public; his fine stubble rubs a little against the smooth skin of England’s chest, a little prickle of distracting friction as he rolls around her bud with his tongue and looks entirely too pleased with himself when he glances up and sees England watching him, heat spiralling pleasantly in her stomach.

Exasperated, England puts her hand atop his head and pushes some of his curls into his face. Portugal just snorts at her, ducking his head further to lave wet, open-mouthed kisses to the underside of her breast.

He moves lower, taking those kisses with him, and shifts over her again, England’s spine parallel with the mattress. England prepares herself for Portugal laying on her once more, but just ends up surprised when Portugal deposits most of his weight on the bed between her parted legs instead, spreading them wider to fit his bulk.

England jerks when Portugal kisses her bellybutton, a slightly flustered  _ oh  _ escaping her lips when his palms smooth over her thighs and she realises his intent.

Portugal peers up at her again, lifting his head. “Good  _ oh _ or bad  _ oh _ ?”

“...Not a bad  _ oh, _ ” says England, reaching out with her fingertips to stroke around the shell of Portugal’s ear. “Just...”

“ _ Oh? _ ” Portugal grins.

England flicks his ear.

Portugal moves lower again, parting England’s legs even wider - and lifting them, one after the other, encouraging her to place them over his shoulders. The move is practical but a double-edged sword; the sudden heat of Portugal’s breath on her already flushed sex has England jerking again, her knees bending and unintentionally pulling Portugal even closer to her.

His actions suddenly dictated for him, as soon as his surprise has faded, Portugal greets her crotch up-front with an amused: “Olá?”

England lets her head drop back with a  _ thump  _ into the pillow beneath it, absolutely refusing to make any sort of eye contact with the ridiculous man between her legs any more. It does nothing to stop her from hearing Portugal’s quiet laughter, his smile pressed with kisses to the sensitive insides of her thighs, and England’s cheeks are hot against her forearm when she lifts it up to cover her face.

“ _ Shhhh, _ ” Portugal murmurs between his silly nothing kisses, as though  _ anyone  _ had said  _ anything,  _ crooning little half sounds as England’s skin flushes under his lips, cheeks, and nose, Portugal nuzzling against her as his hands curve around her body to cradle England’s arse. The inside of her legs is going to be marked with little stubble-burns after this, England  _ knows  _ it, her skin tingling with the pin-pricked memory of Portugal.

“Are you  _ trying  _ to kill me?” England asks her forearm. Her crumpled-up shift is sliding into her face again.

Portugal’s body shakes with laughter again, shivering up through England’s soles slipping down his back, but he does -  _ finally -  _ apply himself after the scolding, taking the heat of his mouth to where his fingers have already been busy that day. More prepared after earlier, England manages to avoid jerking again at the touch of Portugal’s lips to her, though her thighs tense and her breath seizes from the effort. It is hard to miss; Portugal has the thrum of tension each side of his face - and so he kisses her chastely, ridiculously sweetly considering the location, at the uppermost part of her sex, going back to making those soothing nonsense sounds in the back of his throat.

England lifts up her forearm so she can smack herself in the face with it a few times, damn her headache. “If you start  _ clucking  _ at me like I’m one of your broody damn hens, I  _ am  _ going to attempt to throttle you with my thighs.”

“...Think you could manage it?” Portugal’s voice is low, and smooth, and  _ spilling  _ across his syllables with far too much deliberate care.  _ Bastard.  _ England is abruptly far too aware of how tellingly her breasts rise and drop with her uneven breathing when her shift is still pushed up, not having to even  _ see  _ Portugal to know the look he is giving her under his lashes with that tone in his voice.

“Portugal,” England’s voice rasps at the edges, crumbling all her arch tones into the golden afternoon, “my darling, I can tell you right now that there are two ways to interpret my offering to throttle you with my thighs, and  _ you  _ are currently thinking of the  _ wrong one. _ ”

“...Perhaps some other time,” Portugal says mildly, his breath tickling wild distraction across England’s skin, and puts his mouth back to better use than making England want to maim him.

England is already damp, her body open and interested, and she breathes in in a great rush at the soft, slick touch of Portugal’s tongue to her slit. The muscle drags through her folds in one long lick - and then settles for lapping at her at Portugal’s usual languid pace, delicately circling her hole with its tip first one way, then the other. And repeat.

England trembles, the muscles of her stomach going tense and tight as her body tries to curl up upon itself, coil about the heat Portugal is stroking into her like a tongue of flame. How absurd it is, that this one Nation should have discovered so many ways of melting England through, pressing his mark into her skin and life and history like a signet ring in sealing wax. Her body is alight with fluttering, singing nerves, the hot contact of a thousand parts of her to Portugal, tongue and lips and fingers and thighs and sensitive warm wet skin. England’s toes curl, the balls of her feet pressing into firm skin and muscle, and her arm slips off her face onto the pillow above her head, her fingers closing in upon themselves like a clockwork mechanism coming to the end of its wind, until her nails press deep indents into her shivering palm.

Half-blind with both pleasure and afternoon light, England reaches down with her other hand, tangling fingers instinctively in Portugal’s sun-warmed sleep-loose curls - and a hoarse moan crackles up the dryness of her throat when Portugal rewards her by opening his mouth wider against her, his tongue delving deep inside of her. He cannot fuck her so deeply as he would with his cock, but his tongue is wetter and warmer and  _ far  _ more dexterous,  _ flickering  _ against her sensitive points and tender inner walls.

Everything below England’s waist seems to clench up in pleasure, her shoulder-blades pressing into the mattress beneath them so she can grind herself exigently against Portugal’s face. His hair is tickling her legs, feather-light brushes that make England’s muscles twitch every time Portugal moves, but he treats her slowly and indulgently, his thumbs stroking over her arse and hips, the movement of his mouth soft and lush and languorous, and the sounds he makes between her legs as wet and obscene as any whore’s.

England can barely speak on that account. Portugal’s nose is pressed up hard against her clit, moving, and his tongue is broad as it thrusts inside of her. Deep, it presses _up_ to rub firmly back and forth, back and forth, against her walls, like a child or a _wretch_ or both rolling his _r_ s, dissolving England’s restraint like sugar in hot water that she’s drowning in. Her body is hot and alight and trembling, the gritty sweetness escaping from her mouth in little panting _ah_ s that make her vocal chords ache, and England can hardly tell if the _pulse_ throbbing at her temples is the rhythm of her too-loud heart or Portugal’s tongue.

She whines when Portugal moves his mouth, her grip tightening almost threateningly in Portugal’s hair - only for the sound to turn into a short, sharp keen when it moves  _ upward,  _ his lips wrapping around her clit and his tongue swirling and flicking the nub until England climaxes in a mess over his face.

Portugal licks her - relatively - clean with broad, gentle swipes of his tongue, as England comes down from her high. Distantly, she is grateful for the tenderness, the warm hands stroking over her thighs as Portugal carefully lets her legs slip from over his shoulders again, settling more comfortably about his hips. England’s thoughts are the contented pale golden bubbles of sparkling champagne, her body buzzing with the warm golden lazy buzzing of a bumblebee, and her smile is sated and so, so sleepy when Portugal leans up over her on the bed again, her hand slipping from his hair to curve fondly around his cheek.

One of his hands finds her hand on the pillow, thicker fingers easily opening her unwinding fist to entwine their fingers together, the other forearm braces Portugal’s weight on the bed, and, when he dips his head to kiss England again, his lips are still so soft and wet and lazy, tongue licking into England’s mouth as she follows hazily along. His kisses still taste of her, a faint tart astringency, and when England’s thumb slowly swipes from Portugal’s chin to cheek and back again, she smears her own stickiness under the pad, the slight prickle of Portugal’s stubble the only thing disturbing the smooth glide.

It is good Portugal brought his lips to her - England’s head feels too heavy to lift itself from the pillow, and even her hand is slowly slipping from Portugal’s face, pulled down by the weight of her arm, her wrist. Portugal follows after like the motion is a beckoning call, kissing England until her mouth is tingling and swollen - and then kissing her  _ more,  _ like they could do this all day. They  _ could  _ do this all day. They have before. England is dizzy with it, dreamy with the warm air and warmer skin, the amber colour behind her closed eyes, her ponderous limbs, the way Portugal’s body moves against hers with the same caress as the Caribbean ocean on a balmy day, little frothy waves lapping at white island shores.

Portugal eases himself down against her, still bearing so much of his own weight, until their borders touch in more places than they do not. The patience must be murdering him by inches; England’s ankles brush behind Portugal’s thighs, and his neglected cock hangs thick and full and heavy between their bodies. Portugal breathes a little more heavily when its dewing head occasionally rubs up against England, bumping against the lower swell of her abdomen or catching the inviting spread of her thighs.

England’s stomach turns itself over pleasantly, and she shifts her legs to coax Portugal closer to her, drawing him in. Her thoughts are still as scattered as an hourglass when it is first tipped, but, distracted and distractible or not, she now feels safe and soft and yielding, stretched out and open under Portugal’s gentle heat, and wants the familiar warm weight of him seated inside of her.

The head of Portugal’s cock drags against England’s sex, still slick from England’s pleasure and Portugal’s mouth, and Portugal breaks their kiss just to breathe, his eyes shut and his restraint shivering up through his shoulders. England tips her head up against his, nuzzling thoughtlessly, smiling at the smile she can feel grow in Portugal’s cheeks as his skin slides against hers. Portugal turns his lips sweetly against her cheek - not so much a kiss as his mouth dragging affectionately across her skin -, the tip of his nose tracing the edge of her jaw before he touches his temple to England’s, forehead to forehead: an old greeting,  _ welcome, I know you now. _

But then Portugal frowns.

Worse than the frowning, Portugal lifts his head from England’s, his pretty eyes, when England’s heavy eyelids open enough to meet their gaze, suddenly too serious for such a soft moment. There are creases on his forehead, caught at the ends of his full mouth and dragging its curve downwards, denoting concern, cracking open a hollow cavern under England’s stomach so the golden feeling pours away as smooth as sand.

Portugal releases her hand, callouses and love line sliding down England’s palm, to lay it across her forehead. It feels too  _ heavy  _ there, and England’s lips twist up in sudden irritation as her headache suddenly  _ thumps  _ at the forefront of her skull again, and she tries to turn her head away from Portugal’s hand and the further creases in her lover’s brow. This is  _ not  _ what she is in the mood for, the air too weighty when her body already feels weighed down.

“You are too hot,” Portugal says, and turns the back of his hand against England’s cheek before putting two fingers lightly to the fast-beating pulse at her throat.

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” England grouses, because the look Portugal is wearing suggests  _ effort  _ is going to be required to soothe his woes, and she just wants to lie here curled up with the ridiculous lump and sleep if he does not wish to deal with the hard problem hanging between his legs.

Unfortunately, a sleepy voice slurs, and England’s words are not convincing enough to stop Portugal from pulling away from her, breaking the drowsy lock of her limbs and getting off the bed. England manages to abort the little disappointed sound that somehow claws its way out of her throat - but not before Portugal hears it, the useless man leaning back over the bed to quickly kiss her temple.

“Wait here,” he murmurs, like England has the slightest inclination to go  _ anywhere else,  _ and leaves the bed again.

England pointedly  _ does not care,  _ rolling naturally with the mattress’ movement and turning her back to Portugal and the door. There are vast plains on the pillows and sheets that are still cool - cooler than body-heat at least -, and England somehow manages to claw her shift off of herself at long last to spread herself along them.

Time slips away from her. England drifts, not quite asleep, not quite awake, unable to tell the difference between one state or the other. The air is so warm it feels blurry around her, and it could be either minutes or hours until Portugal returns, a clatter of noise that makes England wince through her daze, twisting her head to squint groggily over her shoulder.

Portugal has gotten himself (part-)dressed somehow, too bright in the daylight in his chintz wrapping gown and… probably the shift he was wearing last night, since he is not likely to have found a new one when it was right beside the wrapping gown on the disaster they have made of his bedchamber floor. The clatter is the silver tray in his arms, too  _ shiny  _ when it catches the sun and sends a spike of pain through England’s head, the rattle of the items on the tray as he negotiates the door open and closed once more.

“You could rouse the  _ dead, _ ” England complains, beginning the very slow and tiresome progress of rolling all the way over onto her other side, her eyes squeezing themselves shut and the knuckles of her fist pressed to the  _ pain  _ in the middle of her forehead as Portugal brings his tray over to the bed.

“I hope it will not come to that.” Portugal sits on the bed - the mattress dips -, and his hand wraps itself around England’s fist, pulling it slowly away from England’s face. She opens her eyes just to scowl at him. “You should sit up.”

“Sit  _ yourself  _ up,” England grumbles - somewhat, she does realise, nonsensically - and continues grumbling when Portugal reaches down and essentially  _ scoops  _ her upright with his stupidly muscled arms, the blurry world spinning horribly and her head thumping both inside her skull and outside, bumping into Portugal’s chest. “It’s too hot for you!”

Portugal sighs, but obligingly rearranges England so she is no longer leaning on him, but propped up against the pillows and walnut headboard. The world still swirls rather alarmingly with the movement, England’s headache included, but it is still infinitely better than trying to summon up the energy to move herself.

“É melhor assim?” Portugal asks as England brings one hand up to clutch at the headboard, grounding herself with the grooves of a carved flower against the heel of her palm. “Better?”

England lets the side of her head drop gently against the wall. (Oh, thank God - it is  _ cool. _ ) “I’m not dead yet.”

“You might be a sweeter patient if you were.” Portugal busies himself with his noisy shiny silver tray, the fabric of his wrapping gown tickling England’s knee as he moves. Liquid sloshes, pours - a smoother sound.

England would glare at that comment, but that would take so much  _ effort.  _ Her lips feel sore - cracking -, and her tongue too dry to soothe them. “If this is your way of confessing a newfound taste for necrophilia…”

“I am very happy to say that that is  _ not  _ one of the many sins I have to recount to my confessor.” Portugal brings a full clouded glass very deliberately into England’s eyesight, before he carefully places it into her hands, waiting for her listless grip to tighten enough before he removes his own. His fingers are cold with condensation. “Sip it,” he warns England, gently, and the cool droplets drip from the glass and his fingers to dribble over her knuckles.

There is a familiar scent of faint citrus in the air. England lifts the glass to take a cautious sniff of the liquid inside of it - and yes, it is as she thought. Portugal has brought her orgeat, a cooling drink, made with sugar, almonds and either rose water or orange flower water. The Portuguese have always had orange flower water in abundance (much to the jealousy of England’s own people), so expensive and so prized, so it is no surprise to find it in their beautiful desserts as well as their drinks.

“Do you still tell your poor confessor  _ all  _ your sins?” England takes a slow, careful sip of her orgeat, letting the drink wet her mouth thoroughly before she swallows. Sweet balm - she has been warm for too long; she can  _ feel  _ the orgeat slipping down her throat in a shiveringly cool flow.

Portugal smiles at her, when England lifts her gaze at last from nowhere in particular to look at him. “Only the  _ important _ ones, querida.” However does he prioritise? “Even priests need to sleep sometimes.”

Just finishing another swallow of her drink, England laughs. It bubbles up out of sweetness, almonds and oranges, even as the smile it leaves on her lips turns wry. It is very difficult to stay thoroughly vexed with Portugal for long, even though today he is responsible for her dehydration and horrible headache, through and through. He is every inch a Catholic darling; he sins, and he sins, and he sins some  _ more, _ and then traipses in with bent bare head and repents so very sweetly that you forgive him almost anything and it feels as though half the choirs of heaven are falling over themselves to start singing of his grace.

The orgeat is not all Portugal brought on his tray. Beside a still-empty glass for himself he has a deep, wide bowl on there, full of water swimming with little chunks of ice. When he moves without thinking he almost puts the sleeves of his shift and wrapping gown straight into it, catching himself just in time and pushing the clothes up to his elbows on both arms.

Instead of expensive chintz, Portugal dips a cloth into the bowl, wringing it out of most of its water before bringing it up to England’s shoulders. He does not say anything, but begins gently running the cloth over her skin, down England’s arm bent close to her body.

After another sips of its contents, England moves her glass to her other hand, letting Portugal pull her arm straighter. His cloth feels particularly cold against the inside of her elbow, though England does not shiver until Portugal cradles her fingertips in his palm and wipes the cloth against the riverwork of veins on the inner skin of her wrist.

“You know,” she says mildly, “the orgeat is enough.”

Portugal  _ hm _ s. “It is better to cool both inside and out.” He releases her arm, taking the cloth up to England’s collarbone, stroking against the hollow of her throat and across the top of her breasts. The difference in temperature across her sternum makes it feel as though he is branding  _ cold  _ against her heart.

“And wiping down a naked woman is what helps you stay cool, is it?”

Portugal gives her a  _ look,  _ but, with liquid inside of her and her internal temperature dropping at last, England’s headache is beginning to lose some of its sharpest edges, and she can manage a playful smile back at him, hooding her eyes under her lashes. “For someone who was so  _ grouchy  _ not long ago -”

England pulls her hair away from where it sticks to her skin with her free hand, arching her bare neck very suggestively so Portugal can move his re-dampened cloth up her neck, around her hot nape. “Yes?” she asks, quite pleasantly, and throws in a little fluttering of her eyelashes to make Portugal huff out a laugh rather than sulk at her as his eyes drink in his hands on her and helplessly darken.

_ “Provocadora, _ ” Portugal says, and England shivers as much at a slow bead of cool water trickling down her spine as she does at Portugal’s tone. Her head still hurts, but the pain is lessening to a degree where she can be distracted from it. “You should finish your drink and cool down before anything else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some possibly unfamiliar terms:  
>  _Lobcock:_ a large relaxed penis, also ‘a dull inanimate fellow’  
>  _Orgeat:_ the name comes from the French _orge_ , meaning _barley_ , as it was originally barley water (a cooling drink made by steeping barley in water). Over time, it developed into a (usually) orange-flavoured syrup (the syrup was made with either rose water or orange flower water most commonly, although there were and are today other variants) made with sugar and almonds and diluted with water. As a sweet ‘cooling liquor’, it was popular with ladies.


End file.
